


Primary Function

by mbaline



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amputation, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood As Lube, Boot Worship, Cock & Ball Torture, Come as Lube, Dehumanization, Electrocution, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fisting, Force-Feeding, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Galra Trash Party, Gangbang, Gaslighting, Gore, Humiliation, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Prostate Milking, Public Use, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Pollen, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Vibrators, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-09 17:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7811452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fights in the Arena weren’t just for entertainment: the Galra needed a test subject. </p><p>With their latest Champion, they have one.</p><p> </p><p>Later, a Galran Commander named Sendak takes an unusual interest in Shiro, presenting him with the possibility of freedom. It comes at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Fonction première](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839448) by [FrankBlack6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankBlack6/pseuds/FrankBlack6), [mbaline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline)



> Heed the tags. This fic is rated N for 'Nasty shit happening to Shiro', and also for 'No redeeming value'.

“This is it?” 

Consciousness comes back to Shiro slowly, in fragments of sound and sensation: the sluggish pounding of his heartbeat, the cool metal beneath him, the sharp chill of air on his bare skin. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He forces his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light, his body trying to flinch away from the source of the pain and being stopped short by the restraints holding him firmly in place. From the feeling of metal on skin he figures that he’s not only been stripped naked but tied down at the neck, wrists, hips and ankles, his legs spread apart by something attached to his knees. There's something else on his skin: small patches of metal, attached to what feels like wires. 

“Yes, this is the one,” a voice says from somewhere behind Shiro. He can’t see them; can’t move at all. He breathes in deeply and tries to stay calm, tries to suppress the burn of humiliation at being on display like this before the enemy: it’s okay; he’s okay. He’s survived worse than this. 

“A real fighter, this one,” says the first voice, “A human. Haven’t had one of those in a while. You still remember the procedure?” There’s a rustle of movement, and then a soft huff that might be a laugh from somewhere by Shiro’s feet, from the opposite end of whatever this room is--there’s nothing Earth-like about it, but from the sharp, antiseptic smell it could be some kind of lab. The press of fingers to his ankle has him jerking in his restraints, trying and failing to pull away. He bares his teeth, summons up enough saliva to speak. 

“Get the frak away from me,” he snarls. 

The subsequent burst of agony leaves him gasping for air, shaking in the aftermath of the stunning pain. The restraint on his neck must have some kind of electrical device attached to it. He tastes blood. There are teeth marks in his tongue. 

“That’s better,” the first voice murmurs. The hand resumes its exploratory path, sliding over Shiro’s knee, his thigh, fingertips tracing over the rows of half-healed claw-marks on his hip from one of his early bouts in the Arena. Footsteps, as the owner of the second voice comes to stand beside Shiro. Another hand joins the first, the skin slightly ridged, like scales. A fingertip traces down the centre of Shiro’s chest, pausing to rub idly at his right nipple until it hardens under the stimulation. He tries to shift away again, and this time the burst of electricity goes on for twice as long, until black dots are flickering before his eyes. 

It’s as the last aftershocks subside that a hand closes around his cock where it lies soft and vulnerable against his thigh. He’s in too much pain to do anything but shudder as three fingers curl around the smooth skin at the base, a thumb brushing over the foreskin before nudging it out of the way to rub at the newly-exposed head. The scrape of rough scales over sensitive skin draws out a ragged gasp from Shiro’s throat. 

_This isn’t--he hasn’t--no-one’s ever_ \---and he’s groaning as the second hand slides down between his spread thighs and cups his balls, stroking over the soft weight of them until he can feel his cock twitch and begin to harden. He screws his eyes shut, tries to swallow down the bile in his throat and keep from struggling away; he’s not sure how many more shocks his weakened body can handle. If he’s going to get out of here he needs to be as healthy as possible, even if that means that---that---that he doesn’t resist and lets them get their sick Galra game over with. They're not hurting him. He can do this. He can do this. 

The hand on his cock is now tugging at him in long, languid strokes interrupted by brief pauses as the thumb rubs at the tender skin just below the exposed head, where fluid is beginning to gather. He’s almost fully hard now, fattening under the Galras' ministrations. His throat feels tight, his skin flushed all over. He wants to curl up and cover himself. Wants them to get it over with. No,that’s not right, he wants them to stop. His heart is hammering in his chest. It’s taking everything he has to keep his hips from twitching. 

On the next stroke the grip tightens, the tip of a claw scraping over the head of his cock. He chokes back a shout at the pleasure-pain of it, involuntarily shifting his hips away from their grip and getting another shock for his efforts. 

"Keep it gentle," says the first voice when he finally comes out of it, twitching and shaking, and the grip comes back looser, resuming its slow rhythmic strokes from the base all the way to the very tip and back down again, drawing out bead after bead of precome until it begins to spill over. "These ones always need some coaxing in the early stages." 

The second hand slides up from between his thighs, over his tensed abdomen to his chest. The first touch of a fingertip over his nipple has Shiro inhaling sharply; the touches are a lot more purposeful than before. First comes slow teasing circles traced around the left one, then the right, coaxing them into full hardness. Shiro jolts as the edge of a nail runs over the very tips of each before digging in and rubbing fiercely, the not-quite-pain soothed as each bud is rolled between thumb and forefinger before pulling lightly at them. When Shiro chokes on a moan, the touches grow more rough, the fingers alternating between hard pinches and soft strokes, until the flesh is all pinked up, a little swollen, his nipples two points of heat on his chest. 

After a few minutes more the second hand returns to its position between his thighs and tugs gently at his balls, rolling them carefully in the palm before two fingers slide up behind them and press firmly at the skin there, rubbing and kneading at something that has bright sparks flashing before Shiro’s eyes. A groan escapes him before he can hold it back, because that feels so much, so, frak, so _good_ ; and he’d prepared himself for torture--he’d been trained to deal with torture--but this burning agonising not-torture is so much worse. The slide of the hand on his cock is slick with pre-come, his belly damp with it, and the touches on his balls and his perineum feel so good but it isn’t enough, he needs---he needs---

He grits his teeth against a moan at the loss of sensation as the hand on his balls pulls away, barely suppressing a sigh of relief as the fingers come back, and now they’re wet, they’re _slick,_ and a finger is rubbing circles over his hole, coaxing it open with an obscene slick noise, teasing at his rim, and he can’t, frak, he can’t. 

“Please,” he forces out, his voice sounding alien to his own ears,”Please don’t,” but his traitorous body is giving way and letting the finger inside him, and it's easing its way inside in rhythm with the slow pulls on his cock. Together it’s like nothing Shiro’s ever felt, discomfort and shock and pleasure all twisted up into one indescribable sensation, and he’s helpless to do anything but lie there and take it as they stroke his cock and work him open a little at a time. 

Soon he’s ready enough for another finger, and then a third, gasping as the fingers brush over something inside that sends heat zinging up his spine, and he’s glad for the restraints that stop him from spreading his legs wider like some kind of Galra bitch, feeling the burn of humiliation wash over him in slow, sickening waves at how he must look, shameless, almost whining for it, and he wants them to stop and he wants them to keep going and if he could just get free, could just touch himself, get a hand on his nipples or his cock or his balls, no more teasing, because he’s so close, oh, oh, he’s gasping with it, each press of the fingers inside making his cock jerk and drool all over him, and his balls are drawing up and his fists clench tight and he closes his eyes---

And they stop. In an instant they’ve pulled away completely. 

“Phase one complete,” says the first voice.

Shiro bites his lip to keep from begging--they can’t, they wouldn’t leave him like this, he has to, he needs to come--and tries to get the leverage to move his hips, to do something, anything. His balls feel almost painfully heavy, his cock impossibly swollen. If he could only get free, it wouldn’t take more than a touch to tip him over the edge. 

A moment later the hands are back and he nearly sobs with relief, shuddering as their fingers brush over the over-sensitive skin of his sac--just a little bit more and he can, he can---and then something fastens around the base of his cock, another loop circling around his balls and pulling tight, too tight, and his cock jerks and spasms but it isn’t enough, he’s tied too tightly, the unrelenting pleasure beginning to tip over into not-quite-pain. A moment later something presses against his slick hole, feeling solid and a lot thicker than three fingers. It nudges past his rim, stretching him wide and then wider as it slides in and in until he can feel it settle deep inside him, the bumpy ridges of it scraping over that indescribable spot inside with every slight movement of his body. He shifts his hips, trying to curl away from the stimulation and nearly sobbing as the motion sends another jolt of unwanted pleasure right through him, his cock and balls too constricted to do anything but twitch helplessly. 

“Please,” Shiro groans. His eyes are wet. He doesn’t even know what it is that he’s asking for. 

It’s like they don’t even hear him. 

“Phase two initiated,” says the second voice. The first voice makes a noise of affirmation. There’s a few seconds of movement and unidentifiable noises as various things are placed on what sounds like a table running parallel to Shiro's prone body. 

After a few more jerks of his hips, testing, trying to see if he can get the thing inside him angled just right and get this whole thing over with, Shiro lays still, sweat-slick and panting. Soon the relentless ache between his legs begins to subside, his cock losing some of its painful hardness, twitching every so often when the thing inside him shifts and presses right up against that perfect spot, dragging groans out of him. He can feel the Galras' eyes on him, their voices silent. He wonders what they're thinking, whether this was all part of their plan or if the way his traitorous body responded delighted them so much they decided to draw the torment out. He closes his eyes and tries not to think at all. 

By the time his cock is completely soft he's drifting on the edge of consciousness, barely aware, exhausted by his ordeal. So he isn't prepared for the sudden burst of sensation between his legs as the thing inside him begins to buzz and move, sliding right up against that spot again and again until he's hard and panting and please, frak, he can't, he can't do this again-- 

The buzzing stops, his constrained balls and cock twitching and jerking with the aftershocks of sensation. He barely heard the next words over the surge of his own pounding heartbeat. 

"That looks like a good preliminary level to begin sequence," says the second voice. "Let's attach the primary apparatus." 

The owner of the first voice shuffles closer. There's a quiet click, and then a hand is curling around the base of Shiro's cock, steadying it as some kind of tube slides down over it, the end of it settling about halfway down. It feels tight but not painfully so, just another layer of inexplicable constriction. Whatever its purpose, Shiro can imagine that it won't be good. 

One of the Galra makes a noise of what might be satisfaction at the finished product: Shiro flushed and panting in his restraints, his legs spread open and his slicked-up hole stretched wide around the thing inside him, cock and balls swollen and red from being constrained, every minute shift of his body sending a shudder through him. His body is shaking in anticipation of the next unexpected jolt inside him, his nipples peaked and sore-looking. He wants it to be over. He's starting to realise that it's only just beginning. 

Footsteps, and the owners of the voices are receding: they're leaving. They're going to leave him here like this. He wants to speak, wants to yell, his body gearing up for a fight, but then the thing inside him is buzzing again and he's sobbing as pleasure hits him in slow, battering waves, his cock twitching in its restraint and his chest heaving. He can't do anything, can't get free, can't come. 

Can't do anything but lie there and wait for it to be over. 


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes. Shiro doesn’t know how long. Can’t think beyond the movement of the thing inside him, the sweat-slick slip of his skin in the restraints, the ragged noises that escape him every time the vibrations intensify. In between the first few cycles his cock was allowed to soften, his body given a brief respite to recover from the overwhelming pleasure, to let him claw his way back from the brink and try to regain some semblance of control. 

Then the breaks grew shorter and shorter until the cycle was continuous, the pulsations of the thing inside him occasionally slowing but never stopping, unrelentingly rubbing right up against that spot inside, and his balls are drawing up tight again and again, tied too firmly to do anything more than twitch and sway ineffectually. His face is damp with tears, his mouth slack. Every slight shift in the air around him feels like a cool caress on his feverish, over-sensitised skin. He’s been hard for hours, days, years, pre-come pulsing out of him in fits and jolts--impossible that the tube isn't full by now. His balls are a hot, heavy weight between his legs, full and tight and begging to be touched. He’s shaking all over, his pulse stuttering; his body can’t take much more of this torment, the overwhelming pain of being kept on that knife-edge for hours. 

He'd do anything to return to the torment of before, if it meant having their hands on him now, Galra or not. Shiro knows that he needs to fight back, needs to find the opportunity to escape, but he can't think like this, can't keep his mind from returning to the memory of their hands on him, inside him, how the violation of it had twisted into something good and then something _great,_ and if they could only let him come then this torture will end and he can start planning his escape. 

By the time the Galra return he’s biting at his lip to keep from begging, ready to do anything, to say anything, whatever it takes to make it stop. The doors have barely even swung open before he’s trying to work up the saliva to speak. He opens his mouth---and stops short at the sound of footsteps. More than two sets. There must be at least six, maybe more. He can’t turn his head to look, can barely drag his attention away from the urgent demands of his body. _Doesn’t matter how many there are_ , he tells himself, pushing down the familiar burn of humiliation at how he must look to them. _He only needs one_. 

The pleas are on the tip of his tongue and he’s going to do it, he’s going to beg for it, and then a rough hand is closing around his cock and his words die with a strangled groan, his hips jerking into the touch. Another hand--more like a paw, covered in fur--closes around his ankle, and he can feel soft puffs of air against his thighs as someone leans in close and reaches for the thing between his legs. It pulls out easily with a wet noise, and when it’s out he can feel the way it’s left him open and twitching futilely, his hole loose, unable to close. Some distant part of him registers that he should be feeling relief. Instead all he feels is empty. 

“I think it’s ready for phase three,” a voice speaks from beside him, a voice that might be the first one or someone else entirely.

The person near his feet makes an affirmative noise. There’s a shuffle of movement, and then new hands are on his legs, rubbing at the insides of his shaking thighs, and a finger is stroking over the loose rim of his hole and dipping inside. Within seconds it’s joined by another, and then a third, pumping in and out, the sound of it obscene and sloppy. His body opens up easily for them, takes them greedily, and his hips are moving against his will, grinding back against the fingers inside him and forward into the rough grip of the hand on his cock. He's close, he's so close, and the fourth finger slides in smoothly, rough knuckles dragging at his rim and it’s not enough, he needs more, he can’t---

“Initiating phase three,” says the second voice, but Shiro can’t focus on whether it’s the same voice because several things happen at once; the tube over the tip of his cock suddenly pulls tight, the rhythmic pressure alternating between squeezing him hard and then gentling, and a thumb joins the fingers inside him and pushes in up to the knuckle and then further, their fist sinking in and stretching him wide, and through the flash of pain his vision whites out for a moment until the constriction on his balls drags him back, gasping. 

"Please." The word escapes him before he can hold it back, and it's like a dam breaking; he's begging, an incoherent stream of filth spilling from his lips and he feels hot all over, hotter still where their hands pinch and pull and press at him, _please, frak, please, touch me, put it in me, oh god, I need it, ah, ah, ah---_

And a paw is reaching down and unfastening the restraints around his cock and balls and he's coming. 

His back arches off the table and his cock jerks, spitting thick streams of white into the tube around it, his hole clenching tight around the wrist sinking into him as the hand twists and curls inside him, rubbing right up against that incredible spot inside. Dimly he registers that he’s yelling, he’s sobbing, the pleasure endless, more intense than anything he’s ever experienced in his life, the rhythmic suction on his cock drawing spurt after spurt out of him. 

When it finally subsides and he’s safely away from the precipice he slumps back, gasping for air. He's exhausted and aching all over, like he just went three rounds in the Arena without a break in between. Shiro tries to curl up and hide his face against his shoulder--tries to hide the flush of shame washing over him, because he came from them, came _for_ them, and at least in the Arena he'd been doing what he needed to survive but this is something else entirely. This is being turned into the Galra's bitch and getting off on it. 

Worse still is the fact that they aren't stopping. Soon he's shivering, overwhelmed and trying to pull away as much as the restraints will allow, but the hand is still pumping away inside him and clawed fingers are tugging at his balls and he’s still, oh frak, he’s still _hard_ , and the hand on his cock is stroking him slowly and it feels---it feels good, it feels _perfect,_ and his thighs are shuddering and he’s panting, overwhelmed, eyes shut tight, oh, oh, he’s going to-----and it’s happening again, pleasure crashing over him in fierce waves, cock twitching in someone’s grip as it shoots more come into the tube, the relentless pull of suction dragging it out of him until he’s whining at the overstimulation. 

The steady motions of the fist working over that spot inside aren’t slowing, and there are hands all over him, too many to count, stroking and rubbing at his balls, teasingly pinching and pulling at his nipples, sliding up and down his thighs and already--frak, it’s too soon, this can’t be happening--his cock is swelling again, fattening up under the attention. 

Within minutes it's fully hard once more, the continuous alternating pressure of the tube on his cock tipping back over into pleasure-pain. Shiro's hips are making aborted movements upwards, trying to follow the movement through, his toes curling as the fingers on his chest come back slick, stroking over the heaving swells of his pecs and pressing them together, rubbing roughly at his nipples all the while. His legs are trembling, thighs shaking; he feels slick with sweat. He tries to speak, the words escaping him in cut-off gasps and groans: _no, please, I can't, no more--_

Shiro comes a third time, just a thin dribble of fluid, and he can't have much left to give but they don't stop, and he chokes back a sob as the realisation hits that they're not going to stop, not until he's milked completely dry, like he's an animal to be harvested, used up, drained. 

By the seventh he's coming dry. His cock twitches and jerks but nothing comes out, and it's over, frak, it's finally over. Except that it's not: instead the hands on him slow their movements, become teasing, inexorably driving him towards the peak again, stoking the simmering ache of unwanted pleasure into a fire that threatens to burn him to ash. He already feels paper-thin; won't take much more to tear him apart. 

His face is a mess of tears as the ninth hits him. His nipples and the tip of his cock are raw points of pain, the rim of his hole swollen and sore, his balls aching fiercely between his legs. He thinks he blacks out as it overtakes him, his toes curling and his eyes rolling back into his head as orgasm crashes into him in long, agonising waves. By the time he comes back to himself the tube on his cock is being eased off with a hiss and a click, the cool edges of it scraping over skin so raw that he flinches. His gasp of pain turns into a sob as the fist inside him slides out with an obscene, wet noise, leaving him open and gaping and twitching like a hungry mouth, body already missing the sensation of being stretched and filled. 

"Initiating cleaning procedure," is all the warning Shiro gets before he's being hit with a powerful blast of ice-cold water, angled first over his chest--he chokes as it hits his abraded nipples and cock--and then down between his legs, shooting up inside him and then trickling out slowly. A cloth-covered hand follows the path of the water, wiping him down. Shiro shudders as a hand grips his cock and carefully wipes at the very tip with the coarse fabric, the cloth trailing down and cleaning the slick from the insides of his thighs before dipping inside the rim of his hole and cleaning him up inside until he squirms. 

When they're finally done he lies still, staring up at the dark ceiling, the only thing he's been able to see for hours. His mind drifts. He thinks of before all this, before the Galra ever violated him in ways he'd never could have imagined, before the Arena, before he'd been forced to take innocent lives to spare his own. Thinks of Matt, prays that wherever he is that he's safe from this. He has to be; Shiro got him sent away. Shiro got him out of this place. 

Shiro sighs, feeling a burst of unexpected warmth in his chest, like a candle shielding him from a harsh winter gale: hope, because Matt is alive and safe and Shiro's going to find him and his father and they're going to escape. He’s going to endure this, and then he’s going to get out of here. 

Shiro holds onto that thought as tightly as he can; he has a feeling it's the only thing that's going to get him through this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves; Shiro/Sendak incoming in the next chapter!
> 
> Comments, as always, are super encouraging and motivate me to write more; let me know what you thought, and what you'd like to see more of. 
> 
> (Also, I'm debating making a tumblr so I can keep all my favourite nsfw Shiro trash fanart in one place. Thoughts?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity arrives in the form of a new visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags.

Shiro flinches into consciousness with a choked gasp of pain at the feeling of something sharp slicing into his chest. It drags a line from wrist to forearm, parting the skin. Blood wells up in an instant, burning hot against his cool bare skin. He feels too cold to shiver, too weak to pull away from the touch; he needs to preserve his strength. Galra fingers are tracing over the wound, dipping inside, their touches exploratory, curious. They’re always curious. 

After a moment the fingers recede and the knife is back. They cut into him again, a long thin slice below his left nipple down past his armpit. On the third cut they go slow, carefully peeling away a patch of skin until his right shoulder is raw.

Shiro can’t feel his hands. Can barely feel anything at all besides the shallow cuts littering his skin--all in various stages of healing--and the dull persistent ache between his legs from earlier, when they’d used the machine on him until he’d passed out from exhaustion.

He’s been in this room for weeks, maybe months, now. Long enough to establish the pattern that the Galra appear to follow. They’re harvesting him in some way, he’s sure. Trying to obtain as much of his genetic material as possible for some unknown purpose; better not to think about it. 

During the first cycle they draw him to the edge of orgasm again and again until release feels like blessed relief. Using the tube the Galra collect his semen, usually only stopping when he loses consciousness. Sometimes they keep going. The first few times they’d used hands and fists and the tube on his cock to milk it out of him. Now they mostly just leave him alone with a machine pumping away inside him, forcing the come out of him in fits and spurts. 

When he regains consciousness they feed him, the same thick slop he and the other fighters were given before fighting in the Arena. At least then he’d had a bowl, a spoon, could feed himself. He misses it; now he’s fed through a tube shoved down his throat and kept there until he’s swallowed everything, gag reflex forced to work against the intrusion. 

The second cycle is a more recent addition to the Galras’ routine: vivisection. It varies session to session. Sometimes it involves slicing into him and cutting away patches of skin, other times taking fluid samples from his veins and his spine and then his bone marrow, stabbing needles deep into his hip to extract it. He’s lost count of how many times they’ve removed the nails on his fingers and toes. Apparently the Galra haven’t mastered the use of anesthesia, or maybe they just don’t view their test subjects as requiring it, because they haven’t used any this entire time. 

In the last few sessions they've steadily grown more adventurous, seemingly safe in the knowledge that they still haven't pushed his body past its limits. Not quite yet, anyway; Shiro can feel it approaching like a dark shape on the horizon, from the way he can feel his ribs pressing against his skin, the way constant hunger gnaws at his stomach, the way that unconsciousness is becoming more of a struggle to claw his way back from. 

During the interrogations back when he'd first been captured, despite all the pain they'd inflicted, the Galra had been careful to keep him alive for further questioning. Later, in the Arena, they'd needed him in good enough condition to fight. Here on this table, he's wasting away day by day. Eventually they’ll have harvested all the resources they need and his body will have outlived its usefulness to them. He's running out of time.

The problem is, his opportunities so far have been limited. Non-existent, if he’s being honest with himself: he hasn’t moved from this table since the first time he was strapped down to it. There's a possibility that they may be moving him while he’s unconscious, but given the fact that it’s impossible to tell either way, he needs to focus on other possibilities. From the rubbed-raw patches of skin from the restraints he knows that they’re tied too tightly to tear free of regardless of the strength of his struggles when the Galra leave him with the machine and he’s alone.

When he’s not alone, so far he’s mostly been compliant, unresisting as the Galra carry out their tests, since the punishments for fighting back have usually been severe, and always painful. But maybe if he continues to act out despite their attempts at keeping him in line, they might decide that he's too disruptive a test subject; might even decide that he's better off fighting back in the Arena. Or maybe they'll just get rid of him. 

It's a chance he'll have to take. He doesn’t have any other choice. 

On the eighth slice of the knife into his skin, Shiro twists his head as far as it'll move in the restraints and snaps his teeth at the arm of the Galra leaning over him. The resulting burst of pain from the shock collar leaves him shaking and gasping, the longest shock yet. 

He waits for his racing pulse to subside, and then does it again. They pause their work once more, and shock him in response. 

By the fourth time his heartbeat is fluttering unevenly in his chest, sweat cooling on his skin. The motions of the knife carving up his skin are decidedly less gentle. Shiro's not sure his body can take much more punishment during this session; better to increase his acts of defiance over time, and start again during the next session. 

He closes his eyes, slumps back against the table, and feels the knife sink into his skin once more. 

+++

Halfway through the third subsequent session, Shiro’s teeth finally connect with one of the Galras’ skin. He bites down, feels hot salty fluid flood his mouth as his teeth pierce the skin. The next instant a closed fist slams heavily down on his stomach, right over an open wound. 

Shiro instinctively opens his mouth and gasps for air, badly winded, and then hands are holding his mouth open and pushing something inside that settles under his teeth with a firm ‘click’ and he tries to bite down only to realise that he _can't,_ that whatever is in his mouth--tasting like metal--is keeping his mouth stretched open wide. Already his jaw is beginning to ache sharply. His mind races; time to figure out his next plan of attack.

The session resumes without further interruption. 

+++

Shiro chokes back a strangled groan as he shudders through his twelfth--thirteenth? he's lost count--orgasm. When it's finally over he lies limp in his bonds, sweat-slick, fucked-out and exhausted; a familiar feeling. He knows by now that he's close to passing out. His tongue lolls loosely from his open mouth; it's been several sessions since they put the gag in, and they haven't removed it since then. In some ways he’s glad that it's there because it keeps him from begging them to stop or worse, begging them to _keep going_ ; after that very first time he’d made sure never to break down like that again, but sometimes he came close, felt the words on the tip of his tongue before he managed to bite them back and swallow them down. 

Beneath his daze Shiro registers the sounds of movement as the doors opens and bodies shuffle out. That's never happened before, not in the middle of a session. The unexpectedness of it has him forcing himself into alertness, listening out for clues on what's happening. 

The door opens. Heavy footfalls. A sharp intake of breath from the second voice, and then: 

“C-Commander Sendak, sir.” 

A pause. Whirring, as the machine pumping into Shiro stills and then powers down.

“We didn't know you were back; we thought you were still in deep-space--”

“I was in the system. Zarkon had a mission for me,” says the new voice; Commander Sendak. His voice is deep, authoritative. “I heard talk of a new Champion.” 

Footsteps as Sendak steps closer, the rustle of fabric as he moves. Up close, the scent of fur, smelling sharp and faintly sweet. 

“I’ve heard that this one has been very,” a furred hand strokes carefully over Shiro's belly, clawtips skimming over the ragged lines of scarring from the Arena where an opponent had nearly sliced him in half, “...resilient,” Sendak finishes. His hand pulls away, briefly tracing the crooked line of Shiro’s wrist where his right arm was broken and didn’t heal right. 

“Yes, sir,” responds the second voice. “This specimen has been one of our most productive so far. It’s just unfortunate that...well...” 

“Tell me.” 

“It can be very...combative, despite our corrective measures. Yesterday it bit one of the harvesters. Hence the mouthpiece,” the first voice says, presumably gesturing to the ring of metal they had pushed into Shiro’s mouth, forcing his jaw open wide and his teeth apart.

A long pause. 

“Bring it to my quarters tomorrow at seven-eighth,” Commander Sendak says after a moment. “Its behaviour needs to be brought under control before the next stage.” 

“Y-yes, Commander. Sir. Tomorrow, seven-eighth.”

Footsteps: Sendak leaves. The two voices sigh with relief.

Shiro waits for the machine to resume. To his surprise, after a few minutes of inaudible whispering amongst themselves, the two voices step in close and begin removing the apparatus, easing Shiro’s cock free of the tube and sliding the machine free of his hole. Nothing like has ever happened before; they've never stopped in the middle of a session, not when Shiro's body still has more to give. 

Shiro’s shock deepens at the touch of cool wet cloth to his skin. It brushes over his chest, wiping away the dried blood there, before sliding down between his legs. He shudders at the feeling of fabric brushing over the sensitive skin of his balls, around the rim of his hole, dipping carefully inside and wiping away the slick. They're cleaning him. This is the first time they haven't used the hose. He doesn't know what it means.

Next comes some kind of cool gel, rubbed into his skin, all over, with extra attention paid where the damage is worst: the places where they've cut into him, the gouges in his hip where they've extracted bone marrow, the chafed-raw head of his cock. After a few seconds the gel begins to tingle, warming up. A few seconds more, and the pain begins to leach away. 

Shiro lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be without that constant presence looming over him: he's been in pain since the moment the Galra got their hands on him all those months ago. 

His reverie is broken by the feeling of the feeding tube nudging at his open mouth. He angles his head, trying to ready himself in case they decide to shove it down quickly the way they've done before, but this time it pushes in slowly, past the ring keeping his teeth apart. For once he’s given time to adjust, to get his gag reflex under control, so that by the time the nutrient-liquid starts pouring in it’s easy to just lie back and swallow it all down. 

When it's done he closes his eyes and takes stock of the situation. His hunger’s been sated, he’s not in pain, and he feels pleasantly warm. He feels _content,_ he realises, too exhausted to drum up anything more than a faint disgust at himself for feeling good about something the Galra have done to him. He can save those feelings for later, once he’s escaped; for now, he needs to focus on preserving his strength for tomorrow, when his opportunity to get out of here will finally arrive. Maybe it’ll happen when they first untie him from the table, or during the journey to Sendak’s quarters. Maybe he’ll have to wait for Sendak to drop his guard. Maybe he’ll have to let Sendak do what he wants first, and make his escape afterwards.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, Shiro will take it. He has to, if he has any chance of getting to Matt and his father, of freeing his team from the Galra’s clutches.

Shiro feels the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. Tomorrow, this table and everything the Galra have done to him will all be behind him, because he’s getting out of here. No matter what. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ Shiro: Honey, you've got a big storm coming.jpg
> 
> Sorry for the lack of porn; gotta set up some plot to get there first! On the plus side, the next chapter should be posted in the next few days, and it is a) over 5k so far and b) full of Shiro/Sendak. 
> 
> Feedback/comments are really appreciated; let me know what you thought! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro is released from his restraints. It comes at a price.

The Galra are leading Shiro through what sounds like a long echoing corridor, tugging him forward by the chain attached to the collar around his neck. He’s naked, the same way he's always been on the table, and he's almost glad for the cloth covering his face and eyes if it means he doesn't have to see the look on the faces of passersby as they watch him walk past, completely bare and chained up like a dog. Instead he tried to focus on what he can currently see: the fabric over his eyes is just barely thin enough for him to see patches of light and dark, but nothing concrete, nothing detailed enough to give him any hints about the route they're leading him down. 

He's long since lost count of the number of steps it's been since the lab, and he's too disoriented from his time on the table to keep track of the twists and turns they're making. Right now every piece of energy is going to the effort of staying upright: his ankles are hobbled by the short length of chain connecting his feet, his wrists tied together behind his back. If he falls, the Galra will take that as a sign of disobedience and punish him, and Shiro knows that he needs all the strength he can get if he's going to get through whatever Sendak has planned. 

He keeps walking. 

After what feels like an eternity the Galra come to a standstill in front of what must be a door. One of them steps forwards, and with a faint ‘whoosh’ it slides open. For a second the Galra remain still, murmur inaudibly between themselves. Shiro smiles grimly beneath the blindfold; the Galra seem almost as apprehensive about Sendak as he does himself. 

Then one of them seems to steel themselves, and leads Shiro inside. Now he tries to concentrate, counting the steps from the door to the wall the Galra pulls him towards and then attaches him to through what might be magnetism between the cuffs and the walls, his ankles held a foot apart and his wrists pinned by either side of his head. There must be some kind of control that they use to adjust the magnetism on the cuffs; if it's hand-held, all Shiro needs to do is get a hand on it and he'll be able to free himself, maybe even cuffing Sendak in the process. 

He's startled from his reverie by the sound of the door opening again, heavy footfalls announcing the Commander’s arrival. 

“Good,” Commander Sendak murmurs. “That will be all.” 

“Sir,” the Galra says. The door closes behind them with a quiet hiss as they leave. 

Shiro tries to focus on the sound of movement as Sendak steps closer, but it’s difficult to hear over the sound of his own pounding heartbeat as adrenaline floods his bloodstream. He’s aware that he’s breathing heavily through the gag, hands instinctively curled into fists, ready to fight the moment that he’s free.

He can feel warm breath on his face as Sendak moves to stand before him, still not speaking after those first words. In one careful movement a claw slices through the blindfold. The fabric falls away, and Shiro sees Commander Sendak for the first time. 

Shiro saw a lot of different alien beings while fighting in the Arena, and had a lot of time to practice hiding his reactions to them. Sendak definitely isn’t the most monstrous thing Shiro’s seen, but he comes close, not in his appearance - tall, broad, and covered in thick dark purple fur - but his expression: in those pale, pupil-less yellow eyes, Shiro can’t detect any semblance of humanity at all. Instead there’s just a cold, almost reptilian curiosity as the Commander cocks his head, eyes surveying first Shiro’s face and then the rest of him as he stands exposed and restrained against the wall. This close, there’s an unusual faint scent to him: sweet, with an edge of bitterness. 

One huge furred paw-like hand moves to rest on Shiro’s thigh before tracing a path over his soft belly, his chest, cupping his jaw, clawtips brushing over the racing pulse in his throat, the stretched-tight seam of his lips around the gag. Sendak squeezes lightly at Shiro’s throat before resuming the downward path of his hand, scoring a deep set of scratches below his collarbone and then flicking a clawtip over his nipples. He pauses to watch as they begin to harden into points, wet with dripping blood. 

To his horror Shiro begins to feel that old familiar heat pooling in his belly, because the only times he's been touched in months have been to hurt him or to make him come but apparently his body can't tell the difference anymore because, with a now-routine burn of humiliation, he can feel his cock begin to swell, his balls growing heavy between his legs at the Commander's light touch. It's a self-protective response, he knows; the sessions end more quickly the faster he comes. That doesn't make the warm buzz of arousal curling through him any easier to bear. 

The lack of pupils in Sendak’s eyes make it difficult to tell where exactly he’s looking, but it’s easy to tell the moment he notices how his touch is affecting Shiro: his mouth twists into a cruel, sharp-toothed smile.

Bile rises in Shiro’s throat. He feels hot all over. His hands are shaking as rage like he’s never known floods his veins at the thought of this sick son of a bitch enjoying his humiliation, and when he gets free he knows now that he’s going to kill him, he’s going to frakking tear him apart limb from limb---

“Shiro.” 

The sound of his own name is like a splash of ice water thrown in his face. Shiro goes cold all over, making a shocked noise through the gag. 

Sendak goes on, ignoring Shiro’s reaction. 

“I saw holovids of you in the Arena,” he says, voice quiet. “You were ruthless. Bloodthirsty. A true warrior. Such ferocity is rare from ones like you.” 

Without blinking, Sendak reaches for Shiro’s face and slices apart the strap keeping the gag in place before wrapping his fingers around it and easing it out from between Shiro’s teeth. Shiro closes his mouth and works his jaw, adjusting to the sudden change.

Then he spits in Sendak’s face.

With an enraged snarl Sendak lashes out, slamming Shiro in the face with a closed fist, smashing his head to the side. Shiro blinks rapidly, tasting blood. A warm thread of it begins to stream from his nose. His left eye is already beginning to swell shut, his cheek hot with pain. It’s worth it. 

Then he opens his eyes, and his heart stops. 

It’s Matt. Not the real Matt, but a projection of him, right there in the middle of the room. He’s crouched down, working some kind of tool into the mud he’s standing in again and again. He looks thinner than Shiro remembers, his hair long; when he brushes it out his face, Shiro can see that he looks older, too. First comes relief -- he’s alive, frak, he’s _alive_ \-- followed quickly by terror, because seeing him now means that Sendak must be aware of their connection, a fear confirmed by Sendak’s next words. 

“He was your teammate,” Sendak says slowly, the softness of his voice belying the devastation it causes. “You attacked him in the Arena, got him sent to the work colonies.”

Sendak presses in close, nose almost against Shiro’s neck as he inhales deeply. He runs a single claw down the length of Shiro’s chest, leaving a thin line of blood in his wake, before closing his large hand around Shiro’s cock, still half-hard from a mixture of fear and adrenaline. Slowly, he begins to pump it in long, firm strokes from base to tip. 

“He’s obedient,” Sendak goes on; Shiro’s eyes flick to the projection, Matt toiling away under a Galra sentry’s watchful eyes, ”knows how to follow orders, doesn’t fight back. Not like you.” 

“All I have to do is give the order, and I can bring him back,” Sendak continues. “He wasn’t Champion material, but I’m sure we can find a use for him,” Shiro’s fully hard in Sendak’s grip now, the head of his cock exposed and shiny with precome as he continues to stroke while stepping back a little, enough to survey Shiro’s expression, waiting. 

Back in the Arena, Shiro knew that he could do what it took to keep his team safe, even if it came at the price of losing his humanity piece by piece. Matt would’ve never survived in the Arena. Shiro took his place, and then he started killing, and he didn’t stop until he’d won. He knew that he could take it.

He knows that he faces the same choice now: Sendak will bring Matt back, to here, to _this,_ to things no-one should ever have to endure. But Shiro’s endured it, and he knows that he can keep on enduring it if it means that Matt will stay out of Sendak’s clutches. All he has to do is submit, and Matt will be safe. 

Numbness settles over him like a shroud, the same kind that always hit him before every fight in the Arena. Shiro steels himself, his fists unclenching. He licks his dry lips, readying himself: the words in his mouth feel like a noose closing around his neck. He tilts his head up, and looks directly into those pale yellow eyes. 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Shiro says, his voice steady.

Sendak’s face twists into a smile. 

After a long moment, he steps back, moving through the flickering projection across to the room’s opposite wall, to sit in the large chair there that rises from the ground at the gesture of his hand. He settles into place. A moment later, the restraints keeping Shiro pinned click open, and then he’s free for the first time in months. He closes his eyes briefly, trying to savour the feeling of it even as his legs threaten to buckle beneath him. Then he raises his eyes to focus on Sendak, who uses a foot to tap the spot on the ground in front of him: _come here._

All of Shiro's senses scream at him to refuse, to resist, to fight back. 

Instead he thinks of Matt, and steps forward. 

“No,” Sendak says softly, gesturing at the floor. Shiro already knows the next word when it comes: “Crawl.” 

Shiro keeps his jaw clenched, feeling his face heat in shame as he lowers himself to the ground, on to his hands and knees, trying not to wince as the position puts weight on his badly-healed right arm. Slowly, he does as Sendak ordered: he crawls. He avoids looking down at himself; he doesn’t want to know how he looks, how sickly pale his skin has become, how thin he is, how covered in scars he is. His skin feels hypersensitive, the floor beneath him smooth against his knees and palms as he takes slow halting steps forwards. His body aches all over, unused to movement, his cock swaying limply with every step, his balls a soft vulnerable weight hanging below. 

This close to the ground he’s practically eye-level with the projection of Matt, and for a single heart-stopping second Matt pauses in his task and appears to look directly at Shiro, brow furrowed in confusion. But there’s no revulsion in his eyes, no disgust at seeing his teammate submit like this to the Galra, and then the moment passes and his eyes move away as he resumes his task. Good, Shiro thinks. He shouldn’t have to witness this.

A few seconds later Shiro moves through the projection of Matt, breathing an internal sigh of relief. It’s behind him now. He doesn’t have to see it anymore. 

By the time he’s made it across the room the hot, tight feeling in his throat has dissipated, replaced by a cool calm. His pulse slows, his breathing growing steady. He can do this. He’s taken so many lives in the Arena, stained his hands with so much blood, been degraded by the Galra in unspeakable ways. Compared to that, this is nothing. A few minutes and it’ll be over. He can do this. 

Shiro settles on his knees in front of the chair between Sendak’s spread thighs. 

Sendak licks his lips, looking down at Shiro, taking in the sight of him. After a moment, he moves a hand from where it rests on his knee to rub between his legs, the flesh hidden there beginning to swell beneath his clothing. A few moments more, and the shape of it is clearly outlined against the fabric. It looks huge.

With a deft flick of his hand Sendak undoes the top of his pants. He gestures to himself, eyes still fixed on Shiro’s face. He smirks; he’s enjoying this. 

“Take it out,” he commands. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Shiro shuffles forward, getting in close enough to reach for the opening in the fabric. His shaking fingertips brush over something slick and hard before curling around the width of it - almost too much to hold in one hand - and easing it out into the open. 

It's almost impossibly huge, vaguely cock-shaped but more pointed at the head, flushed a darker purple than the fur that surrounds it and covered in smooth-edged ridges that are more concentrated at the tip, which is smeared by what appears to be the Galran version of precome: bright pink and slick like oil beneath Shiro’s fingertips. Here the smell from before is sharper, more intense, a heavy sweet musk that only grows stronger when Shiro fully grips it, his fingers rubbing over the ridges. It fattens in his grip, hot with the blood throbbing just below the surface. 

Sendak sighs in response, the powerful muscle of his thighs twitching at the stimulation. He threads the fingers of his left hand into Shiro’s hair, tugging his head up until Shiro has no choice but to look him in the eyes, the pale column of his neck exposed. With his other hand he lightly grips at Shiro’s neck, claws pressed against his jugular in warning as he presses a thumb against Shiro’s lower lip, tapping it, demanding entrance. Reluctantly, Shiro opens his mouth and lets the intruding digit inside, feeling it stroke over his tongue. It tastes of animal skin and musk, faintly sweet. The pad of the thumb traces a line across his bloody teeth, the sharp point of his canines, before drawing back until just the tip rests inside. Shiro doesn’t have to wait for the next order, just closes his mouth around it and sucks it back down. He tries to ignore Sendak’s pleased sound at the feel of it, and worse, the way the noise makes his cock throb in sympathy. 

It would be so easy to disobey, to bite down. Just a slight movement of his jaw, and he can inflict some semblance of revenge on one of his tormentors. Instead Shiro opens his mouth wider, lets Sendak slide in a second finger, then a third, the size of all three together stretching his lips wide. His throat works against the intrusion; he has to work to keep from heaving. His eyes sting. This is a sick perversion of something he might have enjoyed back on Earth, a slow, teasing foreplay, each party steadily riling up the other; but there was never time during training, never the right person, and now---Sendak’s touch feels like a permanent stain on Shiro’s skin. He tries not to think about how no matter what happens after he escapes, he will never be able to forget this first time. 

After what feels like forever Sendak pulls his wet fingers free and reaches down to curl them around the head of his exposed cock, just above Shiro’s own hand, stroking at the tightly packed spines there until they begin to unfurl like some kind of grotesque flower. Shiro finds himself transfixed, unable to look away, equal parts fascinated and disgusted as something bright red and glistening begins to protrude from the tip, peeking out from between Sendak’s moving knuckles. 

An insistent tug at his hair guides Shiro forwards until his nose presses deeply against the base of Sendak’s cock, his quiet noise of surprise at the sudden movement muffled by the thick fur there. Sendak’s hand is like a vice, huge and immovable, keeping him in place. Shiro keeps his mouth shut tight, lips firmly held together, because he won’t--he can’t, not until Sendak makes him. He submitted to Sendak’s will. That doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy. 

The next tug on his hair threatens to tear some of it out, the pain making his eyes water as Sendak shakes him like a disobedient dog, releasing his grip on his own cock to give Shiro room to work. 

“Use your mouth,” he orders, gripping tighter until Shiro gasps with pain. 

His mouth is already open, and from there it’s simple, easy to do without thinking too much about what it is that he's doing, what he's being made to do. He can do this. He just needs to get through it. 

Shiro uses his grip to keep the length of it steady as he steels himself and darts his tongue out, brushing it wetly against the base where fur transitions into warm skin. He pulls back a little, swallowing to work up more saliva, and tries again, this time licking slowly over his own fingers and knuckles up to the ridged head, feeling it twitch and swell beneath the strokes of his tongue, the bright red tip glistening wetly. The spines scrape roughly against his tongue, smoothed out by saliva and that bright pink precome, the taste of it faintly sweet and not-unpleasant, almost tasting _good_ after so long without anything besides flavourless grey slush, and Shiro finds himself shifting in close so he can lick at the head, drawing out that slick sweetness, the flavour of it bursting on his tongue. 

He pulls back long enough to wet his lips, rubbing them over the head and then pursing his lips and sucking messily down the side, the spines shifting at the stimulation. There’s no reaction from Sendak, which means Shiro is going to have to try harder; the sooner he can get this over with, the better. He changes tactics, licking an uninterrupted stripe from base to tip, making sure to get it as wet as possible. This time Sendak makes a choked noise, his hips twitching: that’s better. Shiro pulls back to breathe in, adjusting the angle of his head to press his lips to the spiny slick tip of Sendak’s cock, lapping at the steady spill of precome from the exposed slit before closing his mouth around it and sucking gently, feeling the fluid flood his mouth, hot and sweet like molten honey. 

In response Sendak snarls and then groans, his thighs shuddering and jerking as Shiro opens his mouth and begins to suck him down, his lips stretching wide around it. He bobs his head up and down a few times, adjusting, trying to find an easy rhythm for it, his hand moving over what he can’t fit in his mouth. It's messy; he can feel spit beginning to drip down his chin as that sweet-sharp taste floods his mouth with saliva. When it’s just over halfway in he pauses to breathe, inhaling deeply through his nose as he tries to summon up the willpower to keep going, but it turns out he doesn’t have to: Sendak loses patience, his hold on Shiro’s hair tightening as he forces his head down and works Shiro’s mouth down onto his cock.

It’s too much too soon, and Shiro gags, choking as it bumps against the back of his throat, his jaw forced open wide by the intrusion. Sendak doesn’t slow, forcing himself deeper until Shiro can feel his throat distending at the relentless force of it, the muscles there clutching tightly around the tip, drawing out more and more thick fluid. A weak nudge at Sendak’s thighs-- _slower, please, don't--_ earns him a violent shove downwards as punishment, Sendak burying himself in Shiro’s mouth to the hilt, forcing him to take all of it. Just as he’s on the verge of blacking out from lack of air Sendak draws him back up and he coughs wetly, chest heaving, but that’s all the respite he gets; Sendak snarls, claws digging into Shiro’s scalp as he begins to roll his hips, bumping up against the back of Shiro’s throat again and again until involuntary tears are streaming down his face and he’s drooling around Sendak’s cock, his chin wet with it. 

Darkness is curling around the edges of his vision when he finally feels Sendak’s cock jerk and twitch and begin to spill, spitting spurt after spurt of thick sweet fluid down the back of Shiro's throat as he's kept in place, given no choice but to swallow it all down and try not to choke. After the first ten seconds Sendak pulls Shiro off as he continues to come, hot streams of release painting Shiro’s face, his hair, his chest. By the time Sendak finishes nearly thirty seconds have passed. Shiro can feel warm come dripping down the side of his face, his eyes glued shut with it. After a final drawn-out groan Sendak slumps back, his mouth curling into a satisfied smile. He reaches down to grip his cock, with his other hand tugging Shiro’s head up enough to smear the last globs of come over his lips, pressing the tip inside his mouth until Shiro manages to get himself together enough to remember what he has to do, what he’s here for. 

He tilts his head, sucking softly at the tip, forcing himself to swallow down the final drops and lick the shaft clean. When it’s done Sendak releases his grip, and just like that Shiro crumples, panting heavily against Sendak’s thigh, straining for air as he dribbles blood and come. His throat feels raw and badly bruised; he's not sure he could speak if he needed to. He reaches up to wipe his face clean before remembering he hasn't been given permission to. He curls his hand into a fist. It doesn’t matter. It's over. He did it. 

“Good,” Sendak murmurs, his voice a low purr. “Now for your next test: I want you to get yourself ready for me.” 

Shiro flinches. No. He can’t. He already---he did what Sendak wanted, he can’t---not this. Not this too. The Galra have already taken so much from him. Shiro forces himself upright on his knees and looking Sendak in the face, ready to argue, ready to fight back. Except that Sendak isn’t looking at him. Instead his eyes are focused on the middle of the room. On Matt, toiling away on some distant planet, unaware of the battle being fought for his life. A battle that Shiro will never stop fighting, even if that means that in doing so he has to submit to the Galra. Has to give himself over, every last piece, until he has nothing left. 

“How,” Shiro hears himself saying, as if from a long way away. His voice is surprisingly steady. 

“You were very resourceful in the Arena,” Sendak replies. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” 

Shiro pushes down the dull horror that threatens to overwhelm him, instead trying to focus on thinking tactically and form a plan of action. He eyes Sendak’s cock, the intimidating heft of it, huge and already beginning to swell once more. There’s no way that’s going to fit inside him without tearing him apart, not unless he has some preparation first. For that he needs to----open himself up, and for that he needs lubricant. Without thinking too deeply about it he brushes his hand over his come-smeared face, getting his fingers slick. Next he reaches behind himself and then, eyes clenched tightly shut as if he can ignore what he’s about to do, he rubs the tip of his index finger over his hole. It quivers at the light touch, made sensitive by all the attention the Galra have paid to it over the months. Already, Shiro can feel his cock beginning to swell, his pulse quickening in anticipation. 

He starts off tentative at first, rubbing his finger over the rim, getting it slick and loose enough to press the tip of his finger in. He almost withdraws it--wants to take this as slow as he can--but then he remembers before, when Sendak lost his patience and forced his way in anyway. Shiro doesn’t have time to go slow. With steady movements he works his finger in a bit at a time, his hips jerking at the unfamiliar feeling; he’s never done this before, not to himself. When his finger is all the way in he pauses for breath, his eyes fixed on the ground. He tunes out Sendak’s heavy breathing. He can do this. He has to.

The second finger brings an edge of pain with it. Shiro works through it, fucking his fingers in deeper; already his body is beginning to loosen up under the stimulation, well-practiced after his time on the table. His cock is almost fully hard now, his balls heavy. Before he knows it his hips are beginning to twitch, rocking into his own touch, the motion instinctual, natural. Shiro tries to bury the humiliation at how he must look with the knowledge that the better job he does the less likely he is to be injured and the higher his chances of being able to escape when this is over. And, he can admit to himself, it feels good to feel something that isn’t pain for once. 

Soon two fingers isn’t enough. He swipes his hand over his chest to gather more come to slick himself with, breath hitching as his pinky finger accidentally brushes over his nipple. He flushes, feeling his cock begin to drip. Just as he’s about to start with three fingers, Sendak clears his throat. For a moment Shiro feels nothing but blind panic because he needs more time, frak, he’s not ready-- 

“Turn around,” Sendak says, his voice breathless but firm. “All fours.” Shiro grits his teeth and follows the order, spreading his legs wider when Sendak nudges them apart. From this position he’s forced into facing Matt, forced into having to look at his teammate while he degrades himself for Sendak’s twisted pleasure. This time the burn of humiliation is impossible to stifle, his twitching hole on display, slick with Sendak’s come, Sendak’s gaze on him almost like a physical touch. Shiro presses his face to the floor and pushes the third finger in. It slides in easily with a wet sound, his body greedy for it, clutching at it, drawing it in deeper again and again. He jerks forward, enough for all three fingers to slide almost all the way out, before shoving his hips back and taking them all in again. From this angle it’s impossible not to see the clear thread of precome spilling from his cock, his balls tight below it. He keeps going, fingers moving more rapidly now; he could come from this, he just needs to--to---

A hand closes around his balls and tugs backwards firmly. Shiro yelps at the sudden pain, his fingers sliding free as the grip on his balls forces him up onto his knees and then his feet, tears of pain filling his eyes when he isn’t fast enough to prevent another sharp pull. He stumbles backwards, following the insistent movement of the hand gripping him until Sendak’s other hand curls around his hip and drags him down into his lap. Shiro shudders, feeling a stifled sob rise in his throat at the feel of Sendak’s cock pressed up against him, a huge hot line against his lower back. 

Sendak releases his grip on his balls, his hand curling to wrap around Shiro’s throat, pulling him back until they’re pressed flush against each other, back to chest. Sendak’s still fully clothed. Somehow that feels worse. 

The sharp edges of Sendak’s teeth scrape over the smooth skin of Shiro’s jaw as Sendak growls his next words. 

“You know what to do.” 

_Please,_ Shiro wants to say. _Don’t. I’ll do anything_. But the other part of him--the part of him that can see the projection of Matt--knows that that last part isn’t true: that’s why he’s here. 

His legs are draped over Sendak’s, spreading him wide, his thighs shaking as he pushes himself up. He fumbles with one hand for Sendak’s cock, holding it steady, while with the other he holds himself open. Shiro closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sinks down. The ridged head rubs over his slick rim, and for a moment he’s sure it’s not going to work, it’s not going to fit, until with a sudden movement the tip slips inside, nudging past the ring of muscle. It’s much thicker than three fingers, blood-hot and already stretching his hot hole wide, the slow slide beginning to burn as he sinks down further, taking it in deeper. His thighs are straining with the exertion, trying to keep from going too fast. He feels slick with sweat, and it’s not even halfway in yet. 

Soon the ridges begin to scrape over that funny spot inside and Shiro gasps at the burst of sensation that drowns out the growing pain. He pushes himself up, almost all the way off, before shoving back down again, impaling himself on the thick, wet length of it, sliding down a little deeper with each repetition. Sensation builds up fast, sparks of pleasure zinging up his spine with every plunge of Sendak’s dick inside. Before long Shiro’s rocking his hips instinctively, his traitorous body desperate for more, grinding down, each movement sending his cock slapping wetly against his belly, his swollen balls bouncing with every thrust. The fire in his core feels like it’s being stoked, sharp choked-off gasps spilling from his lips as he feels Sendak’s cock shifting inside him, thick and heavy in his gut. 

Without warning, Sendak growls, biting down on Shiro’s shoulder as his hands go to Shiro’s hips, pushing him down further, inexorable, his ass swallowing every inch until they’re both gasping at the sensation of Sendak burying himself to the hilt. It hurts--feels like there might be blood--but beneath the stretched-tight feeling of his hole it feels good, those rough spines rubbing up against that spot inside with every slight movement. Shiro shivers, unresisting as Sendak curves one hand around his body to stroke over Shiro’s belly, over the slight shape that Sendak’s cock makes against it. Sendak growls again; this time the noise is deeper, more possessive, like an animal claiming its territory.

He grips at Shiro tight enough to draw blood, easing Shiro almost all the way off him before slamming him back down at a brutal pace, filling him up again and again, his cock twitching and swelling deep inside with every thrust; he’s close. They both are, Shiro realises with a jolt, as Sendak closes a large hand around his cock, practically covering it as he begins to stroke it furiously, in time with his thrusts. Shiro sobs at the touch, unresisting, unable to tear his eyes from the sight of the flushed wet head of his cock sliding in and out of Sendak’s grip as he gets closer and closer to the edge, Sendak battering his insides and rubbing fiercely over that spot inside with every thrust. It’s too much--it’s not enough--and Shiro’s hips are moving against his will, shifting to meet Sendak’s thrusts and buck up into his tight grip, oh god, oh god, and he’s groaning, feeling his balls draw up tight and he’s going to, he’s going to---

“Vrepit sa,” Sendak whispers into his skin, biting down hard on Shiro’s shoulder---

\--and the sharp sting of pain drags him over the edge and he’s writhing on Sendak’s cock as the come spills out of him in powerful jerks, painting his chest and thighs and Sendak’s fist with hot streaks of fluid. More spurts out of him with every thrust of Sendak’s hips before he stills, pulling Shiro tight against him as he shudders and snarls and spills deep, flooding his insides with heat. It goes on forever, longer than last time, filling him up; Shiro loses track, his exhausted body finally pushed beyond its limit. Unconsciousness begins to overtake him and he reaches for it, grateful.

Anything to get away from what he's just done, what he's let them do. 

He resurfaces some time later at the feeling of wet heat on the back of his neck, suppressing the instinct to flinch away. Instead he tries to focus on his surroundings: he’s lying on something soft, warm fur tickling his back: Sendak, curled up behind him. With a jolt of surprise Shiro realises that the feeling from before was Sendak’s tongue as he leans in again and licks another stripe over the bleeding wounds on Shiro’s shoulder and neck where he’d bitten deep. Shiro closes his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing pain between his legs, the sharp ache everywhere else. He doesn’t want to look at himself, to see all the evidence of how he’d been violated, how he’d willingly given himself over to it, how he’d _come_ from it. He doesn’t want to think about it. It’s over now. He survived. 

Time passes. Shiro feels a light touch to his hair and steels himself in preparation for more pain, but the touch remains soft, stroking over his hair in steady movements. Sendak’s petting him. Slowly, like Shiro’s a wild animal ready to bolt. He’s not sure he could move away even if he tried, too sore and heart-sick to move. Beside him Sendak’s settled into a low, rumbling purr deep in his chest. He sounds pleased, satisfied at seeing Shiro like this, limp and fucked-out and unresisting. 

“Mine,” he says after a while, almost too quietly for Shiro to hear. 

Shiro feels his eyes sting. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’s alive. That’s all that matters. He’s going to make it out of here one day. 

Sleep claims him. He holds onto that thought as long as he can. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand there we go! I thought about splitting this chapter up into smaller parts, but I felt like the rhythm of the scene flowed better as one long uninterrupted chapter: hope y'all enjoyed. One part of this was shamelessly inspired by [this series of drawings](http://lohkaydraws.tumblr.com/post/149356223318/made-you-like-it) by [lohkay](http://lohkaydraws.tumblr.com) ([/twitter](https://twitter.com/lohkay?lang=en)). 
> 
> As always, comments/feedback are always appreciated and help my trash heart to thrive; let me know what you thought and/or what you liked! 
> 
> Also: I am now on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mbaline_trash), where I retweet filthy Shiro fanart, other Voltron-related stuff.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: blood and noncon.

Shiro knows he’s on the table before he even opens his eyes. It’s not just the feel of it against his skin; it’s the faint hum of the lab around him, the sharp clean smell of the cool air on his exposed body, how the restraints chafe against his skin in a way they hadn’t when he’d been upright. He shivers, feeling the memory of warmth wash over him, a solid fur-covered body pressed up against his back as it---

Shiro jolts, hard enough to rattle the restraints, wincing as his right arm twinges. His eyes feel sore and gritty as he forces them open. He’s on the table; he doesn’t remember how he got here, doesn’t remember what happened after falling asleep in Sendak’s quarters. His skin still has that faint sting that follows a thorough cleaning session; they’ve hosed him down since then. He doesn’t remember that either. 

Shifting against the table reveals that the sharp stabbing pain between his legs has dulled to a low ache, the rest of his body practically pain-free beneath the heavy layer of exhaustion. From his time in the Arena Shiro knows that a recovery like this means days of rest, not hours. He doesn’t remember any of it. 

He thought he’d been cold before, but the numb worry at losing all that time makes him feel like ice. 

+++

The routine changes, after that first time: no more milking sessions. Shiro tries to view it as a good sign. Maybe they’re saving him for Sendak. Maybe Sendak requested it, which could mean that he wants Shiro in perfect condition, untouched except by his own hand. From the way his time with Sendak is spent, Shiro can almost believe that it’s true. 

Sendak practically treats him like his own personal toy to play with as he pleases, to order around and degrade and humiliate for his own twisted pleasure, like he owns every part of Shiro: his fingers, his hands, his hole. It’s clear from his reactions that he likes Shiro’s mouth the best, likes the tight wet heat of it around his fingers, his cock, likes the way Shiro chokes and gags when he goes too deep and then just keeps pushing. Sendak does that often, forcing Shiro beyond limits he never could’ve imagined in his darkest dreams. Sendak gets off on it, if the pleased glint in his eye every time he does is anything to go by. 

Often Shiro finds himself going blank during their sessions, letting his body take over for Sendak to use it as he pleases, losing himself in the rhythm of his mouth or the slide of his tongue or the roll of his hips. Those moments never last more than seconds at a time; somehow Sendak instinctively seems to be aware of it when it happens and drags him back to the present, forcing him to stay in the moment by commanding him around, demanding more fingers, more tongue, more enthusiasm. Each time, Shiro pushes down the feeling of dull horror, pictures Matt in his mind--it gets harder and harder to make himself look at the image of his teammate--and complies with Sendak’s wishes. 

The worst part is how Sendak fucks Shiro’s throat and jerks himself onto Shiro’s face and outstretched tongue and then makes him say “thank you” afterwards, as if it’s a gift he’s been given, an honour he should be grateful for. No, the worst part is how he can feel himself getting stronger from the almost-daily exertion and how he has Sendak to thank for his returning strength, how if Sendak hadn’t developed an interest in him he might have already been dead by now. No, the worst part is how later when Shiro’s back on the table he’ll remember the feeling of that thick, hot cock stretching his hole wide, how his body had accepted every inch of it, greedy for it, and he’ll feel his body beginning to respond to the memory of it, leaving him aching and hard and terrified. 

The worst part is how, somewhere along the way, he starts to look forward to it. 

The surgeries performed on him on the table are getting more intense, not just exploratory slices to investigate his anatomy. Now, the Galra have started to concentrate their efforts, focusing on his chest and shoulders, his ribs and right arm a mess of scar tissue and half-healed wounds from the Galras’ methodical attentions. During the last session, Shiro could’ve sworn he felt them pushing something under his skin, into his shoulder blade. He’d passed out before he could find out what it was. 

Increasingly, the sessions on the table leave him sick, dizzy with blood loss and hurting all over with every slight movement. Compared to the agony he endures there, his time with Sendak--humiliating and degrading as it is--is practically blissful; a welcome respite. Knowing that it’s all just a part of Sendak’s sick games doesn’t change the fact that a lot of the time, it feels good, feels _great,_ the pleasure giving him some kind of twisted comforted, pulling him out of his head and the horrors he has to endure. 

Each time, there comes a moment when the pleasure starts to intensify, his brain overloading with sensation, and for a little while he can forget where he is, what he’s doing, forget everything except the feeling of his own body and the pleasure washing over him and how _good_ it feels, better than anything he’s ever felt, and it’s only when his orgasm hits that reality comes crashing back down over his head and he’s lying there, stained with Sendak’s come, his cock lying limp and spent against his thigh, faced with the fact that he’s done it again; he’s come for them again. 

It’s in those despondent moments that Shiro forces himself to look at the projection of Matt, at the reason he’s here and willing. Matt is safe, away on a distant colony, far from his hell. When Shiro gets out of here and frees his team, everything he endured here will have been worth it. They never have to know what he went through. No one does. 

 

+++ 

The door swings open with a quiet click. Shiro steels himself for a group before remembering that that doesn’t happen any more. That doesn’t stop him from suppressing a sigh of relief when it turns out to be only two: the same ones as always. Shiro’s sure he could recognise their sounds from anywhere by now. They shuffle around him, as usual paying him no attention--they don’t need him yet--as they prepare their apparatus for the time ahead. The milking sessions are a thing of the past, he knows, but his body still hasn’t gotten with the program yet; adrenaline floods his veins, the stab of disgust at his body’s reactions simultaneous to the low heat beginning to pool between his legs. 

It still comes as a surprise, then, when the restraints release with a series of clicks and hands roll him onto his front. Before he has a chance to react his face is pressed uncomfortably against the table and the restraints are refastening one by one until only his right arm is free, the dull ache growing more intense as hands twist and turn the arm, examining it, before fastening it up above his head at an angle that makes him gasp at the sudden stabbing sensation running from the crook of his arm down to his fingertips. The pain’s never been this bad before; it had barely even hurt this much when the original injury happened, the pain then eclipsed by the desperate need to stay alive in the Arena, and then later, the crushing relief when his opponent fell defeated at his feet and Shiro realised he’d made it through another fight. 

All thoughts of the pain in his arm or the Arena or the people he killed go out of his head the moment the scalpel touches his shoulder. It sweeps a line across his shoulder blade, parting the skin in one smooth slice. Shiro’s in agony, choking back noises of pain against the cool surface of the table as the scalpel withdraws. It’s okay, he tells himself, feeling tears of pain drip down his face. It’ll be over soon. 

The next cut is deeper, slicing through muscle until it scrapes against bone. 

Shiro screams. 

+++

He focuses on the uneven rhythm of his feet against the floor, tries to hold the number of steps firmly in his head as the Galra pull him along. There’s a sense of nervous urgency in their movements and hushed voices. Shiro suspects that they hadn’t expected Sendak to request their test subject’s presence again so soon; after they’d finished cutting him up they’d rushed to wipe him down and get the feeding tube into him. Shiro had forced himself to keep it down, knowing that he wouldn’t be fed again until the next time. 

And now they’re leading him back to Sendak, his shoulder flaring with pain at every step, his muscles weak. He’s not ready. Not by a long shot. 

From the look on Sendak’s face when the two of them are finally alone, he’s fully aware of that; the predatory look in his pale eyes as he orders Shiro to crawl across the room is stronger this time, almost shark-like, scenting Shiro’s weakness like blood in the water as he strokes himself slowly. Shiro tries to keep his right arm steady as he passes by Matt’s hologram--he’s in some kind of building today, elbow-deep in complex alien machinery--but he can’t keep the pain from showing as the stitches split and hot blood begins to drip down his back. The look Sendak gives him when his arm finally buckles beneath him and he hits the floor is indecipherable; pitying, maybe. Shiro doesn’t want to know. The sooner he can get this over with, the better. 

He pushes himself off the floor, struggling back upright and resuming his slow crawl towards the usual spot between Sendak’s feet. By the time he gets there he's exhausted and shaking, drained by even that small amount of movement. He doesn't want to know how bad the punishment will be if he can't perform properly for Sendak. 

Shiro tilts his head up, baring his pale throat in submission, knowing that Sendak likes it that way; maybe if he pleases Sendak thoroughly now he won't be so rough later. And maybe, eventually, if he plays the act of obedient dog well enough, Sendak will give him more freedom, and he’ll be able to use it to escape. But Shiro already knows that obedience isn’t enough: Sendak wants him to be _willing._

Already from this distance Shiro can smell the thick musk of him, the sweet-sharp scent of arousal sending faint curls of unwanted pleasure shivering down his spine. He leans in, his heart pounding as he dares to move without permission, nosing at Sendak’s slow-moving knuckles and then tilting his head to lick carefully over Sendak’s fingers where they curl around the base of his swelling cock. Sendak makes a pleased sound, his hips jerking to press more firmly into Shiro’s touch. That’s good. That means Shiro's plan is working. 

He shifts his body, bringing his hands up to brace on Sendak's thighs and trying not to wince as the movement puts pressure on his right arm. Then he moves in close, dragging the flat of his tongue over Sendak’s knuckles and up the thick shaft, licking at the wet, narrow tip, before sucking it softly into his mouth. This time Sendak snarls, low and ragged, releasing his grip on himself. Shiro stills, bracing himself for new claw marks on his back or shoulders or scalp and instead is hit with a jolt of surprise as a warm hand reaches for his face, cupping his cheek, steadying him. The touch is terrifyingly gentle. 

Shiro closes his eyes, opens his mouth wide, and sinks down. 

Compared to the other times he’s done this, this one is almost bearable. No hand on his head to push him down, no eye-wateringly tight grip on his hair to guide his motions. He’s had enough practice now that this time when it hits the back of his throat he doesn't gag, doesn't choke, just breathes in slow and takes it in deeper, feeling his throat close around it, drawing out a steady stream of precome until his throat is wet with it. He draws back up, tonguing at the sensitive ridges just below the head and then sucking messily over the tip, lapping up the honey-sweet fluid that spills forth. 

This time when he sinks down he brings his left hand over to squeeze at the base and then lower, rubbing over the swollen balls that hang below until they begin to draw up, tightening as he drives Sendak closer and closer to the edge, his hand and his mouth working in perfect practiced rhythm. He swallows Sendak down again and again, opening up his throat and taking him in deep and then pulling back up, mouthing wetly at the head before diving back down.

Soon, Sendak’s almost there. Shiro can taste it, the way his precome gets hotter and sweeter on his tongue. He can feel it, too, from the way Sendak’s thigh shudders beneath his palm, his cock jerking in Shiro’s mouth, and Shiro’s almost there, he’s almost got it, and he sucks harder, his hand rubbing more fiercely and Sendak’s close, so close, just a little more---

“Stop.”

Sendak’s voice is breathy but firm; he sounds furious, enraged. Shiro freezes, feeling panic like ice water flooding his veins. Sendak shoves him off and stands, towering over him. 

“Get up.” 

When Shiro stumbles, trying to avoid putting weight on his bad arm, Sendak’s hand closes around his neck and _drags_ him to his feet. Shiro chokes, trying to stay upright as Sendak pulls him along by his neck, tugging him through a doorway to the bedroom--complete with Matt’s hologram projected onto the wall--before shoving him hard down onto the bed. Shiro goes down heavily, unprepared, landing right on the open shoulder wound. He just barely manages to turn his head in time to muffle his yell of agony against the bedding. 

He’s panting, trying to suppress another sob of pain as he feels Sendak crawl up behind him. Before he has time to react Sendak’s flipping him onto his front with one powerful movement, dragging his hips up until Shiro’s on his knees, his chest pressed flat against the bed, his arms curled above his head. At this angle his arm doesn't hurt so much. It hurts even less when Sendak ducks down and drags his tongue over the open wound. 

There must be something in his saliva, Shiro thinks dully. Some kind of numbing agent that he didn’t notice before; he’s always had more time to heal up from the table before coming here. Already the burning heat of pain in his shoulder is dissipating, replaced by a faint sense of cool numbness, the sensation there dulled as Sendak licks wet stripes over his shoulder, sealing the wound and then lapping up the blood smeared around it. 

After a few more minutes, Sendak pulls back and then settles more firmly over Shiro, and then blanketing Shiro’s body with his own. He’s heavy, a huge mass of fur and muscle, and growling so low Shiro can feel it rumbling in his own chest in counterpoint to his own pounding heartbeat as blank terror overwhelms him, Sendak’s erection jabbing insistently against the small of Shiro’s back like he’s planning to take him like this, no preparation, just pure brute force. Shiro can’t bring himself to struggle. That’s only ever ended in more pain; easier to just lie here and wait for it to be over. 

On the next jerk of Sendak’s hips his cock slips down between Shiro’s thighs, the way slicked with smears of precome as he begins to thrust. A few moments more and Shiro feels Sendak’s thighs bracketing his own, pushing them together until his legs are pressed close together. Sendak groans at the tight pressure on his cock, cleaving through the gap between Shiro’s thighs, the thickness of his cock rubbing over the sensitive skin around Shiro’s hole and his perineum until he’s gasping at the stimulation. 

This is how Sendak intends to get his pleasure, Shiro realises with a sudden jolt. Compared to the times that Sendak’s made him finger himself open, made him sit in his lap and ride him, this isn’t so bad, Shiro thinks. Lying here like this, letting Sendak take what he wants, is almost bearable. Almost _good:_ at the peak of every thrust the wet rough head of Sendak’s cock begins to brush against the underside of Shiro’s balls until they’re full and tight between his legs, wet with Sendak’s slick; he can feel his cock slapping wetly against his belly with every powerful roll of Sendak’s hips. He’s panting against the bedding, his face heating at the small sounds that escape him as Sendak speeds up, rutting forcefully up against him. 

For once Shiro has something to press his face into, hiding himself from Matt’s unknowing eyes, letting the fabric swallow his groan as Sendak begins a two-pronged assault, his jaws clamping down over the back of Shiro’s neck while his hand closes over Shiro’s cock and begins to pump him forcefully in time to his own thrusts, Shiro’s traitorous body responding to the touch with a ragged moan. He’s hard; he’s dripping; the sound of Sendak’s hand on him is obscene, the sound of his cock pumping between Shiro’s thighs even more so. 

Already Shiro can feel that telltale ache building between his legs. He’s surrounded by heat, solid muscle pressed up against him and rapid breath panting against his neck and Sendak’s hand works him over and Sendak’s cock bumps against his tightly-drawn balls and his nipples rub against the rough fabric beneath him and on the next thrust he feels the hot splash of Sendak’s come lick across his balls and Shiro shudders at the sudden burst of sensation, pressing his face into the bedding to hide his sob as his orgasm hits and he comes too. 

By the time he’s finished shaking through it he feels aching and drained and filthy, his thighs and belly and the bedding below him wet with his and Sendak’s come. After a few minutes Sendak slides free with a wet noise before settling over him again, curling his hand around Shiro’s waist and tugging him in until they’re settled on their sides, pressed back to chest. Shiro closes his eyes, ignoring the trace of heat as Sendak nuzzles at the mess of bite-marks he pressed into the back of Shiro’s neck. The sight of it must please him; one huge hand goes to Shiro’s leg, lifting it enough for Sendak to fit his soft cock between his thighs again, the space still slick. Shiro freezes----please, not again----but after a minute of slow, lazy rutting Sendak subsides, his cock still completely soft where it’s cradled between the smooth skin of Shiro’s thighs. 

Shiro tries to slow his breathing, trying to focus on his surroundings to keep him from sliding back down into panic: the faint grain of the fabric beneath him, the small gusts of breath against his neck as Sendak slips into a light doze, the warmth of his body pressed against Shiro’s back; he’s comfortable, warm, safe. 

No. 

The panic comes back in full force, and this time it’s brought horror and disgust and rage along with it: what the frak is _wrong_ with him? How could he--- _frak_ , he’s in the bed of a Commander of the _Galra_ , the people who kidnapped him and his team from their solar system, who tortured them, who forced them to fight for them and toil for them and service them. He isn’t safe here: not with Sendak, and not on this ship. He won’t be safe until he escapes, until he finds Matt and his father and finds a way back home. He needs to focus; the others are depending on him. If he fails, they’re doomed. 

Sleep comes eventually. It isn’t peaceful. 

+++

The Galra don’t cut into him like that again. They restrict their work to smaller incisions, less invasive; easier to clean at short-notice. Shiro guesses he has Sendak to thank for that. 

That doesn’t make the growing ache in his right arm or the hollow, numb feeling in his gut any easier to bear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sendak: how dare you hurt my pet  
> Sendak: that's my job 
> 
>  
> 
> Some more Shiro/Sendak! This is a slightly less trash-y (though obviously still 100% trash) interlude among all the other trash; the regular schedule of extra-horrible trash will resume next chapter. Sorry Shiro. 
> 
> I am loving your comments and feedback so far; they warm my cold trash heart. <3 As always, I love hearing your thoughts on what's happening and what you might like to see next!
> 
> You can find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/mbaline_trash)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro thought that he and Sendak had come to an understanding. He thought wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this chapter, other than that there is a lot of filth and absolutely nothing wholesome to be found here.

Shiro wakes to the world shaking around him. 

He knows by the warmth and softness around him that he’s not on the table, simultaneous relief and panic crashing over him in powerful, disorienting waves, the feeling compounded by the feeling of the room moving around him, by what might be the entire ship moving around him. The next moment it stops, and the room stills. For a second Shiro almost thinks he imagined it, some strange product of his half-conscious mind. 

Then the room is shaking again, more powerfully this time, and Sendak is jerking upright beside him, snarling. 

“What’s happening?” Shiro dares to ask as the shaking subsides, letting the fear bleed into his voice as he keeps his eyes averted; submissive, as if he hasn’t just spoken without permission. 

Sendak rounds on him, his mouth opening to answer him or discipline him or both. Shiro never finds out, because the next moment, Sendak’s wrist begins to glow, three points of light appearing beneath the fur. They flash once, and then again, and then four times in quick succession: some kind of message, judging by the intensity of Sendak’s eyes as he watches the pattern repeat once more, his expression changing into a mixture of displeasure and something else, something that Shiro can’t decipher. 

Then Sendak’s turning to him, and Shiro pushes the thought out of his mind, bracing himself for punishment. Instead, he gets an answer to his question. Sendak’s gaze is sharp, his eyes momentarily narrowing before something in his face softens, as if he’s finally decided that Shiro doesn’t pose a threat.

“Our latest target is displaying some….resistance.” 

Resistance means attackers, means that the vibrations of the ship are the impacts of weaponry, of people firing on the ship. Resistance means that the Galra have enemies. Resistance is good; resistance means _hope._ Shiro holds on to that thought as tightly as he can, trying not to think about what it means that the vibrations of the ship have already lessened, growing more sporadic. 

He’s still thinking over the potential opportunity as Sendak stands, striding across the room, displaying no hint of self-consciousness at his own nudity. It’s odd, to see him like this, unguarded in a way that Shiro’s never seen; Shiro’s always woken up on the table following a session with Sendak, never like this, still in Sendak’s bed. He tries to keep his curiosity from showing on his face as Sendak stops in front of a featureless section of wall. 

He presses his palm to it, and the entire segment lights up, a glowing circle shining up from the floor beneath him, encasing him in a beam of bright purple light as black under-armour materialises seemingly from nowhere, enveloping his chest and legs. When he’s covered from neck to ankles, thick plating begin to unfold outwards from the centre of his chest until he’s fully encased in a suit of body armour, black and crimson with two slashes of yellow on his chest. 

The circle of light fades away, and he steps forth, standing in all his glory; a huge, formidable figure, all hard, sharp edges. He looks dangerous; he looks terrifying.

And he’s looking at Shiro like he’s a piece of meat he intends to devour. 

He moves across the room in four strides, his footfalls heavy, menace in every line of his body. Shiro forces himself to remain still, forces himself not to shake with the blank terror coursing through his veins as Sendak approaches, coming to a stop in front of him. Sharp claws scrape over the racing pulse in his throat, hooking under his collar, pulling Shiro up until they’re face to face.

“Stay,” Sendak commands, and lets Shiro drop down on to the cool floor, gasping for air. He steels himself, preparing for the cuffs on his wrists and ankles to draw him towards the wall and keep him there. Instead, he feels the whisper of metal as a thin silver cord snakes out from the restraint around his neck, sliding down his back and across the bed to attach to the wall with a click. 

It’s a leash, Shiro realises with a flush of self-disgust. He let himself be chained up like a dog. 

Sendak turns away from him, heading towards the door. Shiro hears him pause, looking up to see Sendak with his foot on the threshold as he turns, his eyes drinking in the sight of Shiro. His gauntleted hand gestures, the motion like an afterthought. In the space of a blink, a small basin--a bowl--appears before Shiro, slowly filling with liquid: water. For him to drink. 

“I’ll be watching,” Sendak growls, his mouth curving into a sharp slash of a smile. 

He leaves. 

+++

For the first hour, Shiro doesn’t move an inch. 

His mind is racing. Sendak had said that he’d be watching. It could just be an empty threat, something to keep Shiro in line. Or it could mean that there’s some kind of chip in the collar around Shiro’s neck to track his movements; could mean that there’s surveillance within Sendak’s quarters, cameras recording Shiro’s every move. Bile rises in his throat at the possibility that there might be some record of everything that’s taken place here, that his own private degradation at Sendak’s hands might be on display for any curious Galran to view.

He forces the thought out of his mind. There’s no way for him to know for sure, and either way, he knows that in here, he’s powerless. He needs to focus his energies on changing that. 

He’s already regaining the muscle mass that he lost during his time wasting away on the table, a by-product of being forced to keep up with Sendak’s demands. Up until now he’s steadfastly avoided looking at himself, sickened at the thought of what he knows he must look like: pale and sun-starved and littered with scars. A short glance down at himself reveals those fears to be true, but beneath that, the renewed strength in his body is undeniable: his left arm thick, his abdomen solid, his thighs broad. His eyes graze over his cock, lying soft and vulnerable between his legs. Panic rises in his throat at the mere thought of touching it, followed by a flood of shame at letting Sendak gets his claws in so deep that Shiro’s afraid of his own body, afraid of disobeying by touching it without permission.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to escape, and get to Matt and Sam, and make it home. The problem is, he only has one chance at escaping, and he needs to use it wisely. If he fails, he knows that Sendak will kill him for such disobedience, might even go after Matt and Sam too. Shiro can’t take that chance; until the escape plan is perfect, he needs to bide his time. He’s already memorised the route here, and the layouts of both the lab and Sendak’s quarter, but that isn’t enough. 

Without knowing the layout of the rest of the ship, he doesn’t even know what direction he’d need to head in to find an escape vessel, and he’s not nearly prepared enough to fight his way out. Besides, if Sendak’s earlier demonstration is anything to go by, the ship appears to only operate using Galra biology; the walls have never responded during any of the numerous times Shiro’s been pressed against them. If he’s going to get out of here, he’s going to need to get his hands on some Galra tech. 

This is the first time Shiro’s been fully alone in these quarters before. Sendak had told him to ‘stay’. But he hadn’t told Shiro not to move at all. Even if Sendak doesn’t agree with that logic later on, the information Shiro can learn here will be invaluable. He’s already wasted enough time letting his fear keep him in place. Now he needs to act. Forcing thoughts of punishment out of his mind, he reaches up to gently tug at the chain. To his surprise, there’s no resistance, no sharp jerk; it moves smoothly in his hand, unspooling from where it’s embedded in the wall with a soft metallic whisper. 

Slowly, Shiro crawls from his position on the floor, and begins to explore.

He’s never properly looked around it before, beyond the cursory glances needed to understand its layout and how many possible exit routes there are; there’s always been a short amount of time between being deposited here and Sendak arriving, and after that his attention is fully occupied until he passes out, and wakes up back on the table.

Sendak’s living space is surprisingly sparse, besides the pile of furs and fabrics that make up the bed, and the chair he likes to sit in as Shiro sucks him off; presumably any other furniture is hidden within the wall panels and can be summoned with a touch. As far as Shiro can see, the walls are devoid of any personal touches, though maybe that’s simply because the Galran tradition for decorating isn’t anything like it is for humans. Based on Sendak’s ego, Shiro would’ve expected some form of trophies, physical reminders of past victories and achievements, but there’s nothing. 

It’s a stark reminder: even after all their time together, the commander is still practically a stranger to him; beyond his sexual preferences, Shiro barely knows anything about him. He hasn’t tried to, too repulsed by how his body gives in to Sendak each time, how Sendak forces the pleasure out of him again and again. Too scared, too, to attempt conversation, fearing punishment for speaking out of turn.But, he’s beginning to realise, maybe he doesn’t have a choice. He needs to understand his enemy if he’s going to have any chance of overcoming him. 

An up-close inspection distracts Shiro from his thoughts, revealing barely-visible seams in the walls, most likely to mark the various panels. Carefully, Shiro presses his palm over the centre of the panel, feeling a faint satisfaction that his earlier theory could be correct when the panel remains unresponsive. 

After a few more minutes of investigating, he turns away from the wall, and heads towards the centre of the room, towards the thing he’s been avoiding this entire time.

It’s been---weeks, maybe, since Shiro last looked at Matt’s hologram for more than the time it took to make sure he was still alive and unharmed. Seeing him is like a two-edged sword, dealing out hope and despair in equal measure: knowing that he’s still alive, that he’s out there, is what keeps Shiro going. Knowing how much he’s changed, how much he’s let himself be humiliated and degraded and ruined by the Galra, how when they finally reunite Matt might not even recognise him any more, is what makes Shiro avert his gaze every time their eyes meet. Unknowing as they are, every time Matt’s eyes brush over him is a reminder of just how far Shiro’s fallen--naked and chained like a dog--that he’s become so used to being exposed and bare like this; the feeling of clothes on his skin feels like a distant memory. 

Shiro pauses. There’s a mark on Matt’s wrist, almost too small to see, even from this close. From far away, it had been invisible. It looks like a series of symbols inked into the skin--a code of some kind, maybe an identification number. The symbols are unrecognisable, probably Galran in nature, but Shiro tries to burn them into his mind. If the mark really is some kind of prisoner id, it could be essential in tracking Matt down when Shiro makes it out of here. It’s better than nothing; up until now, information about where Matt and Sam were taken has been limited. The only clues he’s had so far have been the small clues gleaned from looking at Matt’s surroundings. 

Recently, he’s been spending more time working indoors, working on some kind of machinery, not out mining in the rock fields like before. Today, he’s arm-deep in what looks almost like an engine. From up close, Matt looks leaner, his face sharper, like he’s been hollowed out. He looks exhausted. Worse than that, he looks defeated. 

_Just hold on,_ Shiro wants to say. _I’ll come for you. I’ll get you out of there._

But there’s no point; Matt won’t hear him. 

Eventually, Shiro turns away. It’s been hours; Sendak will be back soon. 

Shiro crawls back to the spot on the floor by the bed, and waits. 

+++

Shiro knows that he’s in trouble the moment Sendak steps through the door, closing it with a slam of his hand against the interface panel. Without pausing he turns, heading straight for Shiro where he kneels silently in the middle of the room, where he’s been kneeling for what feels like hours with only a pale echo of Matt for company. His pale yellow eyes are nearly slits, his mouth open in a snarl, exposing his fangs. His fur bristles all over, his gesture for his armour to detach itself violent. He looks angrier than Shiro’s ever seen. 

This is bad. Shiro thought they’d been making progress; their last few sessions with each other hadn’t been nearly as rough as those first few times. Recently, Shiro had hardly bled at all when Sendak pushed his way inside. He’d thought they’d reached some kind of understanding. 

Clearly he thought wrong; the next moment Sendak’s on him, one huge fist closing around his neck and lifting him bodily. For a second Shiro’s suspended in the air, choking as the pressure increases on his windpipe, his hands scrabbling to loosen Sendak’s grip. Then Sendak throws him across the room. His head cracks against the wall. A rib crunches under the impact. He hits the ground, trying to get his legs under him as he blinks the blood from his eyes. 

Before he has time to react, Sendak’s on him again in an instant, the hulking mass of him towering over Shiro as he grabs a handful of Shiro’s hair and drags him upright onto his knees. Shiro bites his lip to keep himself from screaming as he feels his scalp tear, each breath like a knife in his side from the broken rib. He doesn’t know what’s going on, why this is happening, if this is punishment or another of Sendak’s sick games or something else entirely.

He doesn’t get time to dwell on it. Sendak’s hand slides from his scalp to his throat, claws pressing over Shiro’s jugular in a way he’s learned from experience means _bite me and I’ll tear your throat out_ and then Sendak’s pulling his cock free of its confines and Shiro’s mouth is opening on instinct and Sendak slams forward, burying himself to the hilt. 

Shiro gags, feeling his throat convulse before he gets it under control, trying to regulate his breathing the same way he’s learned to do every time this happens faster than he anticipates. But Sendak’s never been this rough before, not even that very first time: now, he’s snarling deep in his chest as his hips jerk, pulling out and then shoving back inside again and again, battering Shiro’s throat with every vicious thrust. The pace is brutal, unrelenting; Shiro can feel his eyes begin to water from the pain of it as Sendak fucks his mouth violently, forceful enough to bruise. Shiro tries to stay focused, inhaling heavily through his nose every time Sendak draws back enough for him to breathe. If he lets up even for a moment he might pass out, and in this state he’s not sure that Sendak would even stop. 

Sendak comes a few short minutes later with a choked groan, forcing himself deep and grinding his hips as hot fluid spills out of him in thick streams, flooding Shiro’s throat. His grip on Shiro’s neck tightens to the point of pain as his palm rubs over the clear outline of the head of his cock where it presses against the skin, his hips jerking at the added layer of stimulation. Shiro swallows everything down, limp, unresisting. He can feel warm trickles of blood trickle down his neck where Sendak’s claws have pricked him. 

When Sendak finally pulls out, Shiro buckles, slumping back against the wall as he tries to breathe. His eyes are damp, his chin wet with blood and spit and come. This is only the beginning, he knows; he needs to brace himself for what comes next. 

What comes next is that Sendak is too impatient to wait for him to crawl--even slower now, with his useless right arm--instead hooking two fingers around the chain attached to Shiro’s neck restraint and dragging him across the floor, choking and stumbling, until he’s seated in his usual chair, Shiro lying crumpled at his feet. The tip of Sendak’s cock presses through the opening of his pants, flushed and wet with that bright pink precome; he’s still hard. 

Shiro struggles to his knees, feeling Sendak’s gaze on him. When he meets it, some of the anger of before is gone, in its place a look of cool calculation, the same look he always gets when he’s about to make Shiro do something particularly cruel. 

It's a surprise, then, when all Sendak says, his voice barely louder than a low purr, is:

“Touch yourself.”

That isn't anything new: he regularly orders Shiro to do that, to open himself up with his fingers, to get himself ready for Sendak’s cock. It almost feels routine to reach behind himself and work his fingers inside, and Shiro’s done it enough times now that he knows how to perform for Sendak and how to read his own body’s responses; knows how to scrape up every thin scrap of pleasure he can get while doing it. 

Except that when Shiro begins to lower himself down--onto his right elbow, since putting weight on the hand now hurts too much to bear--the tip of Sendak’s boot slides beneath his jaw, tilting his head up and keeping him upright, before it slides down his throat, coming to rest firmly in the middle of his chest. 

“No,” Shiro can feel the low rumble of Sendak’s voice through the boot on his chest before it drops down to rest against the floor again, thankfully avoiding the dark cloud of bruising on Shiro’s side where he hit the wall. Shiro tries to keep his gaze steady, bracing himself for whatever punishment Sendak is going to inflict for disobeying an order he’d done his best to follow. Instead, when he meets Sendak’s gaze, the commander simply gestures with his free hand to Shiro’s chest, where his nipples are two hard points, from fear or cold or unwanted arousal or all three. 

Without giving himself time to think about what he’s doing--if he can appease Sendak now maybe whatever comes won’t be so rough--Shiro raises his hands to his chest. Already he can feel his cock give a twitch of interest, heat pooling in his gut in anticipation of what’s to come. Carefully, he brings his left hand up and brushes his thumb over the peaked flesh, shuddering at the burst of sensation at even that light touch, and at the memories of his time on the table that spill over him in a flood of heat: being touched by so many hands he lost count as they worked him to orgasm again and again; how there’d been times when all it had taken was the rough press of fingers to his nipples to send him over the edge; how even when the sensitivity tipped over into pain some part of him had still wanted more. Even now his body is greedy for it, his chest arching up into the touch. 

Shiro clenches his jaw and tries to make it look good as he gives in, moving his right hand up from where it rests on his knee, sliding his palm up the centre of his chest before pulling it back enough to circle his fingertips around his right nipple. He closes the fingers of his left hand over the other nipple and tugs, gently at first and then a little harder, until a ragged breath escapes him at the sharp sting of pleasure-pain. 

Already, his cock is thickening between his legs, well on its way to being hard. He buries the blaze of shame at his own depravity beneath the spark of relief that his plan is working: Sendak seems calmer now, sprawled in his chair with one hand rubbing slowly between his legs, his gaze fixed on Shiro’s hands. That's good; Shiro knows how to make it even better.

Without missing a beat Shiro lifts his left hand to his mouth, sucking the first three fingers into his mouth, licking over them, making a show of it when he hears Sendak’s sharp intake of breath. When his fingers are nice and wet he pulls them free, bringing them back down to rub roughly over his left nipple. This time he can’t hold back the soft moan that escapes him at the shiver of pleasure thrumming down his spine, his head tipping back, his eyes slipping shut. 

He’s never touched himself like this before. 

On Earth touching himself had been strategic, purposeful: quick handjobs here and there to relieve tension and reduce stress. And even when Sendak has ordered him to touch himself before it’s been purely functional, to open himself him for Sendak’s cock; any pleasure he derived from that had been incidental. 

This, now, is something else entirely. There’s no discernable purpose to it beyond the humiliation of it, and even now that’s becoming easier to drown out with the rush of pleasure at how _good_ it feels, like nothing Shiro’s ever felt before, not even on the table; because this time it’s his own hands rubbing and twisting and pulling, unspooling the thread of pleasure from within him, drawing out a pleasure so intense he never would have thought it possible. 

By the time he starts tugging at the peaked skin, pinking it up, his cock is fully hard and leaking. Shiro tips his head forward, unable to look away as it leaves smears of precome against his belly with every twitch of his hips. Soon soft gasps are escaping him that he can't hold back-- _ah, ah, ah--_ and he can feel his balls beginning to draw up, tightening with each rough tug at his nipples. 

He can feel his orgasm approaching like a dark cloud on the horizon, panic making his throat close up because he doesn't have permission to come, not yet, but Sendak hasn't ordered him to stop touching himself either. Before long he can feel his thighs begin to quiver, his hips jerking erratically as precome drools out of him in a steady stream, pooling on the ground before him and he's close, oh, he's so close but he can't, he's not supposed to, not yet--

As his orgasm begins to hit Shiro does the only thing he can think of: he reaches down and closes his left hand around his cock at the base, squeezing tight and then tighter until the jolt of pain drags him back from the edge, his cock twitching ineffectually in his grip, leaking forth a small pearl of come but nothing more. 

First comes relief--he didn't disobey, didn't come--and then terror because he _did_ , he did disobey, and Sendak’s going to punish him, or worse, take it out on Matt, and he needs to look up and look Sendak in the eye and apologise for his disobedience if either of them are going to get through this unscathed. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, feeling another bubble of shame rise up at how shaky his voice is, how weak he sounds; he needs to be stronger, more firm. He tries again: “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to---”

“Quiet,” Sendak snaps, and then: “Hands on the ground.” 

Shiro obeys in an instant, his heart pounding so fast he feels dizzy. This time when Sendak lifts his boot it comes to rest between Shiro’s legs, nudging the tip of it at his swollen balls and then up the wet shaft of his cock. Without warning he begins to press down hard and then harder, putting his weight into it, crushing the tender flesh beneath his foot until Shiro sobs at the pain, trying to resist the urge to curl away from it. 

He knows full well that this--inflicting pain-- is how Sendak likes to exert his dominance, how he likes to show how much control he has over Shiro. And Shiro’s learned from experience that any resistance, involuntary or not, only makes the pain worse. He keeps still. 

By the time Sendak pulls away Shiro’s nearly shaking, feeling slick with cold sweat and sick to his stomach. Sendak's boot settles flat on the floor between Shiro’s legs, bumping up against his balls again as it does so. Shiro flinches at the sensation to over-sensitised flesh still caught in the aftershocks of pain. Whatever comes next, he knows he's not ready for it. Knows, too, that that doesn't matter to Sendak. 

The boot shifts again, pressing lightly against his tender sac, insistent. Shiro doesn't need to hear Sendak’s next words to understand what he's about to be ordered to do. 

“Move,” Sendak orders. “And when you're done, thank your master for his generosity.” 

The pain still shuddering through Shiro isn't enough to drown out the flush of humiliation at being reduced to this, or the flash of despondent dread at knowing what will happen if he disobeys. 

Shiro presses his palms flat against the floor, and begins to move. 

He goes slow, mindful of the throbbing bruised-up ache between his legs as he begins to rock his hips, feeling the smooth material of Sendak’s boot rub up against the underside of his sensitive balls. It hurts, sparks of aching pain making him shudder and shake, his face hot with shame as he stares at the floor as he moves, wishing it would swallow him whole. 

But--like a lot of what Sendak makes him do--after a few minutes the pain has subsided enough for it to feel almost good, enough for him to sink into it and focus on that faint pleasure, coaxing it into a flame, trying to draw it out; whatever it takes to obey Sendak’s command and get this over with more quickly. 

He shifts more of his weight onto his left hand, using the added leverage to move faster, rubbing himself harder on the smooth curve of Sendak's boot as his half-hard cock begins to perk up. Changing the angle of his hips has the boot sliding over his perineum, and on the next roll of his hips Shiro grinds down, pressing the boot up against that cluster of nerves from the outside. The burst of sensation forces a groan out of him, the sound trailing off into ragged panting as he works up a rhythm, thrusting up onto Sendak's boot and then down again, dragging it over his perineum and balls until his thighs are shaking, splaying wider as his body seeks more stimulation. 

When he tips his head up enough to catch sight of Sendak, humiliation hits him like a suckerpunch at the realisation of how he must look: he’s practically rutting now, like an animal, his cock thick and hard between his legs, curving up against his belly; so depraved that he can get off on his enemy's boot without a touch to his cock at all, and if his team could see him like this, if they saw what he'd become---

His orgasm takes him by surprise, his cock spitting thin ropes of white over the floor and Sendak’s boot and his own chest. When it finishes Shiro slumps back, letting his knees take his weight. Already the brief burst of good feeling is dissipating, slipping through his fingers like sand. 

Doesn’t matter, Shiro tells himself. He needs to pull himself together and keep going: no point in making it this far only to let the plan fail now. Before Sendak even has to order him to he shuffles back enough to bend down, pressing his lips to the line of come he left on the commander’s boot, cleaning up the mess with slow drags of his tongue. When Sendak doesn’t order him to stop Shiro continues like that, ducking down to lick the white stripes on the floor, feeling Sendak’s gaze like a burning brand on his skin. 

When he’s wiped it all clean he forces himself upright, meeting Sendak’s gaze. 

“Thank you, master,” Shiro says. His voice is steady this time. 

Sendak makes a pleased noise in response. This time when he grips at Shiro’s hair his touch is less aggressive, tugging Shiro to settle more closely into the V of his legs. His claws scrape gently over Shiro’s scalp, barely deep enough to draw blood as he strokes over Shiro’s head, the motion oddly soothing in comparison to the brutality of before. 

This should feel like victory, Shiro tries to tell himself, closing his eyes. He did what Sendak wanted, and he calmed him down; the plan is working. 

Instead, it just feels like defeat. 

+++

Shiro gets ten minutes of respite before Sendak orders him to crawl to the sprawl of thick furs and soft pillows that make up the bed, and get himself ready. 

He’s worked his way up to three fingers by the time Sendak settles over him, huge and broad and smelling of that same sweet-sharp scent that Shiro’s come to recognise as arousal, feeling his own spent cock give a feeble twitch in response to it. He presses his face into the pillow beneath him, arching his back the way he knows Sendak likes, willing to endure the shame of exposing himself like this if it means it ends quickly. 

Instead it appears that Sendak has a new plan: with one powerful heave he flips Shiro onto his back and reaches up to pin his wrists above his head, the flash of pain eclipsed by shock: they’ve never done it like this, not face to face. Somehow the idea of it feels impossibly worse than just letting Sendak rut into him while he lies still, the same way he’s always done before. This means having to look his enemy in the eye while he gets fucked and doesn’t fight back. 

The feeling of Sendak’s cock pressing in, stretching him wide, is almost a relief; much easier to focus on his body, to focus on making this as painless as possible, than to focus on things beyond his control. When Sendak begins to fuck into him with short sharp jerks of his hips Shiro finds himself spreading his legs, opening himself up wider, letting Sendak in deeper until he’s worked himself all the way in. Shiro closes his eyes, trying to let his body take over. Instead Sendak’s grip on his wrists tightens to the point of pain, dragging him back into his head until he’s feeling every inch of that thick cock splitting him wide, rubbing up against him as it pulls back. When it’s all the way out Shiro can feel his hole twitching at the absence, almost like it wants more. 

“Look at me,” Sendak snarls, and slams back in until he’s buried to hilt, setting a punishing pace. Shiro’s helpless to do anything but comply. 

From this position, forced into looking Sendak in the face, it’s impossible to pretend that he’s being fucked by anything other than an alien, impossible not to stare into those pale yellow eyes, or feel the coarse fur brush against his face, or smell the sweet-sharp scent of Sendak’s panted breaths against his cheek as he pounds into him again and again.

Sendak’s so thick that he rubs up against that bundle of nerves inside whichever angle he pushes in, stoking the dull sparks of heat in Shiro’s belly whether he wants it to or not. Worse, though, is the fact that in this position the friction of Sendak’s rough fur over the exposed head of Shiro’s cock is close to unbearable, the sensation so intense it almost hurts with how good it feels; already the familiar ache between his legs is growing, his cock fat against his belly. 

When Sendak picks up the pace, Shiro can't help but moan. 

He's burning up, overstimulated, his hips angling up, instinctively seeking more. Sendak's cock is driving into him relentlessly and Sendak’s fur is rubbing over his still-tender cock and balls; feels like he’s everywhere, all at once. He hovers over Shiro, close enough that it would barely take any effort at all to lean up and brush their mouths together, but before Shiro has time to wonder where the _frak_ that thought even came from, Sendak’s ducking down, panting and huffing against the sensitive skin of Shiro’s neck. 

If Shiro thought before had been unbearable this is much worse, each snap of Sendak’s hips sending his broad, fur-covered chest sliding over Shiro’s nipples until they’ve hardened into tight peaks, each graze of fur sending another bolt of pleasure up his spine until he’s gasping with it. It doesn’t take Sendak long to notice the effect this position is having on Shiro. 

It takes him even less time to launch a new attack.

Shiro barely registers Sendak moving his head down before a shocked yell is being torn from his throat as a molten-hot mouth closes around his left nipple and _sucks_. His whole body clenches up at the sensation, gripping tightly at Sendak’s cock until they’re both groaning, and from there it becomes a feedback loop: Sendak licking and biting at Shiro’s tender nipples until they’re swollen and raw, until he’s practically whining with it, overwhelmed, writhing on Sendak’s cock. 

Dimly Shiro registers that his face is wet--he’s crying--and the sounds spilling from his mouth are little more than ragged animal noises of need, and he’s close, oh god, please, he’s so close---

\--and then Sendak’s reaching down with one hand and closing one huge fist around the base of Shiro’s cock, squeezing it with a vice-like grip. 

He raises his head up from its position at Shiro’s chest, looking Shiro in the eye. 

“Mine,” he murmurs softly. 

Shiro sobs, the sound choking off into silence when Sendak tightens his hold, raising his thumb to rub over the slick head, smearing the precome there and rubbing at the slit until Shiro’s hips buck up into his grip. He thrusts once, twice, into the tight circle of his hand, helpless, until Sendak forces him still with another bruising squeeze. When he resumes stroking Sendak is slower, this time, watching Shiro’s face carefully as he drags his fingertips over the sensitive skin below the head. Shiro shudders, feeling his cock pulse another splash of precome. 

“This is mine,” Sendak says again. “This belongs to me.” 

_No,_ Shiro wants to say. _Please stop,_ he wants to say. _Keep going,_ he wants to say. 

Instead, Shiro hears himself speak as if from a long way away. 

“Yours,” his voice is saying. “Yours,” it says again, “Please, please, it's yours,” and it’s like a dam breaking, the words spilling out of him in a desperate flood, mindless, incoherent, and he can’t stop, not even when Sendak resumes his brutal thrusting, rubbing fiercely over that spot inside with every movement, fur grazing over Shiro’s raw nipples, each roll of his hips dragging Shiro’s cock in and out of his grip. 

It takes less than a dozen thrusts for Shiro to finally tip over the edge, his whole body spasming as his cock spurts messily, another weak blurt forced out of him as Sendak drives in once more before falling still, slumping down over Shiro. A flood of heat, and Sendak’s shooting off deep inside in thick, heavy pulses. His hands go to Shiro’s hips, keeping in place. Like he wants to keep him there forever.

Maybe he does: unconsciousness is dragging Shiro down into its depths when he feels Sendak’s next words rumble through him. 

“If only I could bring you with me.”

Shiro’s eyes snap open; he’s fully awake in an instant. 

“Where are you going?” he asks before he can stop himself, unable to suppress the dread flooding his veins. Sendak is the reason why he’s still alive, why they haven’t already carved him into pieces on the table. If Sendak’s gone, there’s no knowing what will happen to him.

Sendak sighs deeply, rolling off to lie beside him to look up at the ceiling. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet, with barely a trace of the usual sharpness he uses. The aggression of earlier is gone. Now he looks almost...soft, a word that Shiro would have never associated with him until this exact moment. 

“The mission earlier was a failure. The emperor has ordered a more aggressive assault. I’m commanding an advance team to take out the planet’s defenses from the ground.” 

Like before, Shiro wonders why Sendak’s chosen to confide in him, his brief pang of sympathy overpowered by disgust at the realisation that it’s most likely because the commander views him as little more than a thing, a body to be used and fucked and humiliated. He stamps out the flickers of burning rage at the thought of it--anger won’t help, not now--and forces his pounding heart to slow as he thinks of the opportunity unfurling before him. This could be his chance. 

“Take me with you.” When Sendak’s only response is a derisive snort he pushes on, “You saw me in the arena: I can fight. I can kill. You said it yourself,” he pauses, trying to remember the exact words from their first encounter,”’A true warrior’. I could help.”

Sendak turns over, narrowing his eyes as he gives Shiro a long, surveying look.

“No,” he says after a long minute. His eyes flick to Shiro’s weaker arm. 

Shiro doesn't need to ask why. Even as the rest of his body has grown stronger, his right arm is failing. The fracture from the Arena never healed right, and the testing on the table hasn't helped; besides occasional sharp stabs of pain, he can barely feel the arm at all below the elbow. Even if he could somehow make it onto Sendak’s team, the right arm would leave him weakened, practically defenceless in a combat situation. A liability. 

Before he can form some kind of response, the panel hidden beneath Sendak’s fur begins to flash: another message. 

Sendak inhales deeply, sitting upright.

“It's time for you to leave.” 

Shiro knows that trying to convince Sendak otherwise is a battle that he's already lost. But that doesn't mean that he has no weapons at his disposal. 

The inner workings of Sendak’s mind are still completely alien to him, but one thing is clear: Sendak is interested in him. No matter how little it extends beyond viewing Shiro as a body to fuck, it’s still something. A small chink in the commander’s seemingly impenetrable armour. A weakness that Shiro can exploit.

“I meant what I said before,” Shiro says quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sendak’s ears twitch in confusion, stilling when Shiro speaks again. 

“I’m yours,” he says. 

The words taste like ashes in his mouth, but it doesn’t matter. They’re not meant to convince Sendak not to leave. Instead, the words are a promise; a reminder of what’s waiting for Sendak when he returns, and a reason for Shiro to be kept alive during his absence. 

For a long moment, Sendak just looks at him. Unlike the calculating looks of before, examining how much pain he can inflict, this time there’s no cold cruelty to it, no undercurrent of malice. Sendak’s gaze is searching, scrutinizing Shiro for any sign of deceit. 

Shiro doesn’t get to find out whether Sendak found it or not; the next moment, the door clicks open, two Galra stepping through--Shiro doesn’t need to hear their voices to know that they’re his handlers from the lab, seen in the flesh for the first time. 

“Commander?” the first voice asks, hesitant; clearly they’d expected a different scene to the one they found. 

Sendak blinks, turning away from Shiro. He gestures dismissively as he stands. 

“Take it away.” 

_It didn’t work_ , Shiro’s mind repeats over and over again as the Galra step forward to lead him from the room. It didn’t work, and he’s going to die the moment Sendak’s ship leaves. The Galra detach the chain from the wall, using it to pull him upright, generating a new chain between his ankle restraints with a flick of their fingers. It didn’t work, and it was all for nothing, and they’re going to take him to the lab, and they’re going to slice him into pieces until he dies from blood loss. Matt and Sam are never going to get their rescue, and they’re die on a planet impossibly far from their home. It didn’t work. Shiro failed. 

“Wait.” 

Shiro’s heart jolts at the sound of Sendak’s voice, that single syllable a knife slicing his breath in two. The silence that follows is the longest of his life; he can feel the lives of his team hanging by a thread. 

“I expect it in my quarters upon my return,” Sendak commands. 

Shiro nearly sobs. It takes all of his strength to keep his legs from buckling beneath the weight of his devastating relief: it’s not over yet. He’s still alive. As the Galra lead him towards the door realisation hits him that he needs to show his gratitude. He knows what he’s supposed to do, feeling his mind form the words before he even says them. 

“Thank you, master.” 

The last thing Shiro sees before the doors close between them is Sendak’s mouth curving into a slow, satisfied smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....sorry Shiro.
> 
> That should also probably be the title of the next chapter because....Shiro is not going to have a Good Time™. What's that famous Galra saying? When the Commander's away, the rest of the Galra will play? And by play I mean....[something along these lines](https://twitter.com/yuutayo/status/752027830469353472) (warning: NSFW fanart) :^) 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought! I love hearing your feedback <3 
> 
>  
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/mbaline_trash)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sendak had requested that Shiro be kept alive. But _alive_ and _undamaged_ are two very different things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEED THE UPDATED TAGS. 
> 
> This chapter contains graphic gore and violence, (in particular starting at "Two things happen simultaneously: sudden cold grips his chest.." and ending at "The effects of the drug are lessening, now. His body is shaking, his toes curling...", and then later between "Bright, stunning pain as a knife drives..." and "Something hard hits Shiro in the back.." ****More detailed warnings in the end notes****), noncon drug use, noncon voyeurism, noncon group sex and torture (as usual: sorry Shiro). 
> 
> If there are any other tags/warnings that you feel are missing, please let me know.

 

He can’t move. Can barely breathe.

The restraint on his neck is tight, so tight he has to force himself to keep still for fear of choking.

After he nearly concussed himself convulsing during the last session as the latest drug concoction coursed through his veins--the most recent addition to the Galra’s new routine--apparently his captors have decided that the only solution is to tie him down more thoroughly; now there are four straps spanning his waist to shoulders, three on each leg and arm, the ever-present neck restraint, and one across his forehead, keeping his head immobile.

He hurts all over: sharp pain where the back of his head had cracked against the table, a dull ache suffusing everything else where his muscles had spasmed erratically the moment whatever they injected him with hit his bloodstream.

Shiro would have thought it was a seizure, if not for the fact that he’d been conscious the entire time, paralysed with pure agony, his body unresponsive and beginning to spasm as the pain hit him, so intense it was like they’d injected him with liquid fire and he was being burned alive.

Unconsciousness--the flash of brighter pain as his head slammed back against the table--had been a blessed relief.

But now he’s awake again. And already, he can hear the tell-tale sounds in the lab around him that signal that they’re about to start all over again.

His time with Sendak had offered a brief respite from his sessions on the table. Even before that, there’d been a routine, a pattern to his days that Shiro could use to track the passage of time. Now he can only guess at how long it's been since Sendak left. He guesses it's been at least two weeks, but it's impossible to tell.

Since Sendak’s departure things have changed, almost as if his captors feel as though they’re running out of time to work on Shiro, and have to glean as much information as they possibly can in the time they have left. Shiro can’t imagine that he has much left to give; they’ve already taken countless samples of blood, semen, hair, skin, nails, sweat, bone marrow, spinal fluid; his skin is a road-map of all the ways they’ve carved him up for their own obscure purposes.

Their latest round of torture has consisted of injecting him with mysterious substances and examining how his body reacts. Not all have been bad: some had had no effect at all, some had done nothing more than make him feel pleasantly warm all over; one had even briefly numbed the constant ache of being prone on the table like this for days--weeks, maybe. But others haven’t been quite so soothing: one had left him paralysed, struggling to breathe for hours on end until it finally wore off; a few have induced a sudden fever, leaving him sweating and shivering and shaking and, worst of all, setting his fever-addled longing for the the warmth of Sendak’s bed.

Yesterday, though, was the worst one yet.

The memory of it--of how it had felt like his skin was slowly being scraped away by a molten blade--sends another wave of crippling dread at the thought of what they might do to him today. Shiro knows that he needs to hold on, that he needs to make it through this until Sendak returns. But as time passes, he can feel his hope for escape beginning to slip through his fingers like grains of sand through an hourglass. He tries not to think about what will happen to him--and more importantly, to the Holts--if Sendak doesn’t survive the mission.

The needle slides into his neck, distracting Shiro from his thoughts with a sharp bite of pain. Shiro lies still, his tense muscles relaxing when the expected agony doesn’t come; evidently they’re not using the same formula as last time.

His relief is short-lived. Later, he will find himself wishing they’d given him pain instead.

It starts off like this: faint warmth spreading throughout his body, in sharp contrast to the coolness of the table beneath him. It feels good; he’s been cold for so long. Shiro closes his eyes, and tries to hold on to the good feeling.

Then the warmth begins to intensify. It starts at his head--he can feel his face begin to flush--and slowly makes its way down into his chest, setting his heart pounding in anticipation of pain. But the pain doesn’t come, not even when the simmering heat within him begins to grow, like a pile of embers carefully being fanned into a flame. Before long he can feel it lighting up his body, heat curling down his spine and into his gut and then lower, down between his legs.

On the next slow wave of warmth, his cock twitches.

Shiro shudders. The good feeling of before is gone, replaced by something far worse: pleasure. Even as he tries to resist it he feels the familiar sick horror of knowing that it’s impossible, that he can’t stop it, that it’s going to happen whether he wants it to or not. His body isn’t his anymore; it belongs to the Galra now, for them to play with as they please. All he can do is endure it and wait for it to be over.

By the time his cock is fully hard Shiro is flushed and panting, slick with sweat. Whatever was in the needle has put all of his senses into overdrive: he can smell the salt-sweat-fear of his own arousal, can practically _taste_ it, his thundering pulse almost loud enough to drown out his ragged breaths as his heartbeat quickens with each powerful surge of heat pooling in his gut. The feeling of the restraints brushing against his hypersensitive skin with every slight twitch of his body makes him want to sob with how achingly good it feels, his breath hitching when a slight shift of his body sends one strap grazing teasingly over one tight nipple.

His hips are beginning to twitch, the movement futile given how tightly he’s tied, but he can’t stop. This isn’t just basic pleasure any more; whatever alien substance is flooding his veins has awoken something within him, some suppressed animal instinct: a hunger, a craving, a _need_ , for touch. His cock is fat and drooling, smearing his belly with wet, but it’s not enough, _frak_ , he needs more, needs anything, and the next roll of his hips sends the restraint rubbing over first his left nipple and then the right and Shiro feels his eyes roll back in his head as he groans, the sound spilling out of him unbidden.

He’s tied too tightly to do anything more than rock back and forth, just enough to get the restraint skimming teasingly over his nipples until they’re fully peaked and aching to be touched. If only his hands were free to rub at them, to twist and pluck at them until they’re pink and swollen the way Sendak likes. Shiro can’t turn his head to look but the Galra must be nearby, observing him, and the wash of shame at falling apart like this in front of them is buried beneath the realisation that maybe, if he only asks, they’ll reach for him, touch him, and the burning heat beneath his skin will finally be soothed.

But even as Shiro opens his mouth to beg he knows that it’s worthless. They never listened to any of his pleas to stop; why would they change their minds now? He closes his jaw with a snap, trying to swallow down the thin moans that threaten to break free from between his clenched teeth. Now even the slight whisper of air over his body is enough to set his cock jerking and beading precome, his balls tight and heavy between his legs. One touch is all it would take to send him spinning down over the edge. Just one.

He tries to picture it, tries to think back to the milking sessions on this very same table, of hands and fingers working him over again and again until he’d been coming dry. He thinks of a fist sinking into him, knuckles dragging over that bright spot inside, pushing the come out of him in thick pulses. He thinks of the molten-honey taste of arousal over his tongue as he swallows the cock down, as it splits his jaw wide, thinks of the solid thickness of it spreading his hole open as he sinks down onto it, ridges rubbing inside him as it slams fiercely up into him, thinks of the hot scrape of a rough tongue dragging wetly over his tender nipple, the flash of pain as teeth prick against the skin around it before the mouth closes over the sensitive skin and _sucks_.

Shiro comes.

His cock spills thick stripes of wet all over himself, painting his chest and neck and jaw. He shudders, his chest heaving, the brief sensation of hard material against his nipples setting him off again, his cock twitching and jerking as it pulses another stream of come. Shiro groans at the sensation of hot come splashing over him, marking up his belly. The heat boiling beneath his skin isn’t dissipating, his orgasms offering mere moments of relief; if anything, the heat is only growing more intense, his skin only growing more sensitive as his cock swells to full hardness once more.

The third and fourth follow in quick succession, the fifth not long after; by the time he finishes shuddering through the sixth he’s slick with sweat and come, his eyes wet, his nipples raw, and it isn’t _stopping_ , it won’t stop, the hunger continuing to ramp up, the need within him intensifying, almost unbearable. Now beneath the overwhelming pleasure and shame and disgust there’s an undercurrent of fear, because his body isn’t slowing down, his heart beating so fast it’s starting to hurt, and he’s beginning to think that he’s being pushed towards a limit that he isn’t capable of reaching, that his body will give out before whatever’s in his veins finishes working its way out of his system.

As the seventh overtakes him darkness begins to encroach on the edges of his vision. He’s breathing too fast--he can’t get enough air--and he’s burning up, he’s on fire, and it’s too much, it’s too much, and he barely even flinches at the feel of another needle sinking into his neck. The effect is almost immediate: it’s like he’s been doused in ice water, cold spreading through his limbs in an instant.

It’s too big a shock to his overwhelmed system. Darkness bleeds over his vision and then consumes it entirely. Shiro lets it drag him down into blissful unconsciousness.

+++

 

He wakes up feeling like he went ten rounds in the Arena, his eyes dry and gritty, his mouth parched.

There's fabric on his skin: someone's wiping him down, he thinks, until the familiar cool sting hits him, the telltale sign of the Galra version of antiseptic solution as it’s rubbed over his chest and his right arm. The sharp smell of it is enough to set his eyes watering fiercely, even as he tries to think of something else, anything else to drag his mind away from whatever the hell they're about to do to him; he’s had enough experience by now to know that whatever it is, it won’t be good, and from the faint clatters in the lab around him, he can guess: they’re going to cut him open again.

He casts his mind back, desperate for something to anchor himself to that will distract him from the dread of the here-and-now. With a flush of humiliation he thinks back to before, to what had happened to him the moment the contents of yesterday’s needle had hit his veins. The memory filters through hazily, as if through a smudged lens, of how needy he’d been, how desperate for touch, and worse, how it had been the thought of Sendak that finally tipped him over the edge. It almost doesn't feel real, like it was merely some nightmarish fever-dream, a sick product of his drug-addled mind.

If he tries hard enough, Shiro can almost convince himself that that's true.

The needle sliding into his neck comes without warning, giving him no time to prepare himself for the burst of pain. Now is usually the time they push the feeding tube down his throat to replenish his exhausted body; they’ve never gone through multiple rounds of testing in quick succession like this. Shiro tries futilely to pull away, swallowing his rising fear at the feeling of the needle emptying its contents into his bloodstream. He can’t go through what happened yesterday, not again.

But after a few minutes, it’s clear that his fear is unfounded: there’s no simmering heat surging beneath his skin, no warmth setting his pulse aflame as he turns on hard. It’s the exact opposite, in fact; as the minutes pass he can feel his body beginning to cool, his pulse slowing, his legs tingling faintly. He doesn’t hurt any more than usual. It’s almost pleasant.

Two things happen simultaneously: sudden cold grips his chest like a band of ice wrapping itself around his lungs, and a sharp blade sinks into his wrist until it scrapes bone.

Hot blood pours over the skin and Shiro screams, writhing in his restraints, except that no sound comes out and he can’t move, can’t breathe, can barely even blink, can’t do anything but lie there as they slice open his arm from wrist to bicep, parting the skin in one smooth glide. His head is fixed in place; he can’t see what’s happening, what they’re doing to him, but he doesn’t need to; he can _feel_ it, with horrifying clarity: cool air wafting over parts of him it doesn’t belong, thick pulses of blood dripping over exposed muscle to spatter wetly against the ground. He’s going to go into shock, or pass out from the blood loss, he has to, anything to get away from this; but whatever they injected him with is keeping him firmly anchored to consciousness, helpless and paralysed as they dissect him like an animal pinned down and splayed open on a board.

The agony as they peel back the skin and muscle with clinical brutality is impossible, indescribable. Flecks of blood splatter against the side of his face. He can feel their hands on him, _inside_ him, manipulating exposed nerves and tendons with interest and curiosity, like he’s a piece of meat to be examined, his choked sobs of pain and terror registering only as a slight hitch in his steady breathing.

This isn’t like the exploratory cuts of before; this time, they aren’t stopping. They’re going to cut it off. They’re going to remove it entirely. The drug has dislocated his mind from his body; he can feel all of the pain in excruciating clarity and yet do precisely nothing about it, can’t hide away from it or pretend it isn’t happening or go away inside like he used to do with Sendak.

 _Please_ , Shiro wants to yell, and they carve up muscle. _Stop_ , he wants to say, and they sever nerves. _Don’t,_ he wants to cry, and they tie off blood vessels.

A whirring, metallic sound starts up, forcing its way through the slick noises of flesh being peeled away from bone. He feels heat on his sweat-damp face, light bright enough to pierce through the darkness of his tightly-closed eyes.

Shiro doesn’t have to see it to know what it is. The drug is beginning to wear off, enough for him to twitch his head from side to side, a thin panicked noise escaping from between his clenched teeth. Oh god. This can’t be happening this isn’t real he isn’t here please don’t no no no----

The lazer-blade hits his arm, and flesh begins to burn.

In his mind, Shiro screams and thrashes and yells. On the table, he lies still.

The blade sinks into the knot of crooked bone where the fracture healed badly and carves into it like a knife through butter.The pain of before intensifies a hundred-fold, a thousand-fold, his arm is on fire, his body is going up in flames and he can’t stop it, and the blade is continuing its steady downward drag, pressing flat right over the ragged edges of the open wound it’s creating, searing bone and marrow and blood, creating and sealing the wound shut as it moves. Shiro can smell the stink of his own burning flesh, can feel the exact moment the saw cuts clean through the bone of his upper arm, feels his entire forearm tear free from his body with an obscene noise.

Dimly he’s aware that he can almost breathe again, that the horrible weak noises he can hear are his own ragged sobs, thin animal noises of pain that hurts too much to scream. A few final slices to remove the last few tendrils of gristle and marrow, and something heavy clatters against a metal surface. His arm. They cut off his arm.

Panic turns to horror turns to blank numbness as the Galra step in close and begin to clean up the blood-slick wound. The sharp bursts of pain as they fold over a loose flap of skin and begin to seal the open wound closed are aftershocks, minor events, barely registering in the aftermath of the earth-shattering agony of mere seconds ago, too much for his body to comprehend. The effects of the drug are lessening, now. His body is shaking, his toes curling. He’s never felt so cold, so empty, like something vital has been carved from his chest, like they carved him open from waist to neck and left him like that, organs exposed for any passing creature to devour. They cut off his arm. His arm is gone.

By the time they finish sealing the wound shut Shiro can finally move his mouth enough to speak. It takes a few tries to get his voice any louder than an exhale, as if they took his ability to speak along with his severed limb.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and cracking. “Please.” He can’t muster the strength to say any more than that. Not like it matters anyway; they’ve never listened to his pleas before.

It’s a surprise then, when cool fingers brush over his chin, cupping his cheek before carefully easing up Shiro’s left eyelid, letting in a burst of light and the shadow of a figure looming over him. He flinches back, trying to shy away; he doesn’t want to be touched, never again, no-one, please, don’t, and a flood of sharp consonants tears him from his panicked spiral as the Galra over him steps back, their touch pulling away as they turn sharply to their helper.

“It’s awake.”

Shiro lets the sounds of the ensuing rapidfire argument wash over him, ocean waves breaking above his head. He’s floating beneath the surface, looking up at the impossibly complex patterns formed and broken and reformed as the waves continue their ceaseless movement.

They’re leaving for Kerberos in less than a week. This might be the last time he sees the ocean for years. The Commander had granted them a few days’ leave to make their last goodbyes, to drink in as much of Earth as they could; they’d need the nourishment in the long months to come. Shiro had spent a few days back home with his parents, reassuring them that he’d be safe and that he’d see them again soon, and that they should keep sending their messages even after his ship passes out of transmission range, because he’ll be able to view them on the return journey, and he knows it’ll be good to hear their voices again after so long.

After that he’d planned to spend his last few days back at the Garrison going over some last-minute flight maneuvers. Then Matt had found out--”Come on, Shiro, _really?”_ \--and invited him to stay with him and his family instead. It’s a short ride down to the beach from the Holts’ place, and even though it’s a little late in the year for the water to be any warmer than freezing Shiro couldn’t resist the urge to dive in, if only to hear Matt’s startled laugh as he stripped down to his underwear and hit the water. It had taken a few minutes to get used to the cold-- _frak,_ that was really _frakkin’_ cold--but after a while his body adjusted to the temperature, his heartbeat slowing as he floated on the surface before dropping down underneath and letting it close over his head, Matt’s voice fading away. It’s peaceful down here, nothing but ocean’s steady pulse around him, swaying him to and fro. Shiro closes his eyes, and drifts.

When he opens them, the ocean is black.

Shiro claws his way to the surface, gasping for air. Day has turned to night; it’s so dark he can barely see anything at all. He tries to head for the shore, but without any light he can’t tell which direction he should swim. Matt is nowhere in sight. Something cold and slimy brushes over his bare ankle, and Shiro recoils, slipping down enough to inhale a mouthful of seawater that feels like ice in his lungs. He surfaces, coughing and spitting, raising numb fingers to his lips.

“Matt!” Shiro yells.

There’s no response. The waves are getting stronger now, battering him, threatening to overwhelm him, and without the sun to provide warmth it’s painfully cold; Shiro’s shivering in seconds. He calls out for Matt again, and then for Sam, and then for anyone, please, and there’s something in the water, tendrils of slick seaweed tangling themselves around his ankles. He kicks himself loose, struggling back to the surface, and there’s a dark shape on the shore, a person, it’s Matt, thank god.

“Help me!” Shiro gasps, struggling to stay afloat as more seaweed ensnares him, wrapping around his legs and chest and arms and neck, “Please,” and he watches in horror as Matt gives him one last look and “No, please, don’t go,” Matt turns away, fading back into the shadows, “Don’t leave me,” and Matt’s gone.

Shiro’s alone.

On his next frantic inhale he swallows a mouthful of water, and he’s choking, can barely breathe, and he manages one last panicked gasp for air before the slick tendrils wrapped around his limbs begin to tighten, pulling him down. The water closes over his head, and the darkness drags him down, down, down into nothingness.

+++

He wakes up.

The arm is gone. He doesn’t need to turn his head to look--the additional restraints are gone, too--because he can feel it. Can feel the absence of it, the space where it used to be. Spasms of crippling pain spark along his shoulder and up into spine when he tries to curl the fingers of his non-existent hand, feeling what’s left of the limb twitch weakly in response.

They cut off his arm. Abruptly his eyes are wet, a noose of panic closing tightly around his throat, choking him. He can’t----he can’t---this isn’t, this can’t be----but he remembers it, remembers the exact moment it separated from his body, remembers the _noise_ of it tearing free, and _his arm is gone_. Shiro sobs, just once: a sharp, abrupt noise in the silence of the lab, except that he’s still in the heart of a Galra ship, and just because he can’t see them doesn’t mean that they aren’t watching him even now, and he can’t show weakness, can’t let them know how much they’ve broken him down.

He swallows back the next sob that threatens to escape, feeling his eyes burn with unshed tears as the sick horrors of memory and nightmare crash over him in slow, devastating waves. He needs to focus.

He’s still alive. That’s what matters: he survived the procedure. And as long as he’s alive, there’s hope. He’s going to get out of here. Sendak is going to come back, and the plan is going to proceed, and Shiro’s going to get out of here. He’ll find Matt and Sam, and together they’ll make it back to Earth, and none of this will matter anymore.

Shiro tries to ignore how that hope is beginning to taste like ash in his mouth. He’s already sacrificed so much of himself, and it’s only led him down a darker path filled with pain and humiliation and degradation. It has to be for something. Memory flickers: Matt standing still and silent on the shore, turning away, leaving Shiro to be consumed by darkness. It was just a nightmare. That’s all it was. He forces it out of his mind.

They took the arm, but they didn’t take his life. That’s all that matters. It has to.

+++

They come for him a few days later.

Since they removed his arm, Shiro’s been left mostly alone in the lab, drifting in and out of consciousness as his body tries to repair itself.

A touch to the ragged seam of his severed arm has him flinching awake with a gasp, writhing in his restraints. The lab’s lights are off--he can’t see--and for a second he’s surrounded by water, drowning in it, and then the sharp click as the restraints unlock drags him out of the memory and into the present. Someone’s--from the sounds of it, more than just some _one--_ is freeing him, is dragging him roughly upright, they’re helping him to escape, he’s getting out of here---

His flicker of hope dies in an instant at the snap of a chain to his collar, and something is being pressed to his lips, clawed fingers forcing his jaw open, and the metal gag slips inside before he has a chance to fight back. The chain--the leash--is yanked fiercely and the next thing he knows he’s on the floor, the gag muffling his yell of agony as his wounded arm is jostled painfully; however long he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness on the table, it’s nowhere near long enough for the fall not to send ripples of fiery pain burning up through the remains of his arm.

Before he can recover, before he can drag in more than a few shuddering breaths, they’re tugging him along, staggering and stumbling as he tries to get his feet under him before a hard shove pushes him to the ground and he’s forced to crawl, the movement uneven and lopsided. Shiro flinches every time the barely-healed stump scrapes against the cold floor, but he tries to maintain his pace; there’s no knowing what they’ll do to him if he stumbles and falls, but he can guess that it won’t end pleasantly for him.

It’s still too dark to make out anything more than vague shapes in the darkness, but from the sounds of it there’s at least five of them--all unfamiliar voices--muttering among themselves too quietly for Shiro to hear anything more than snatches of conversation. What little he hears fills him with dread: the reason he’s been left alone in the lab is because the two who tend to him there have been summoned out to assist Sendak in his attack of the rebellious planet’s defenses. Without them, Shiro is completely unsupervised. Judging by what’s happening here, that can’t mean anything good.

From the direction of their steps Shiro realises that they’re passing through the junction that heads towards Sendak’s quarters, taking him somewhere new, to a different part of the ship. And for the first time--whether out of laziness or thoughtlessness--he’s not wearing a blindfold. Whatever’s about to happen, wherever they’re taking him, he needs to use this chance to learn as much as he can about the ship’s layout. When the time comes to escape, he’s going to need to know which way to go.

They lead him down a long corridor lined with doors, what look like supply rooms full of armour and weapons from the brief glimpses he sights through half-open doors. Shiro burns the location firmly in his memory: he’ll need to be able to find it again when the time comes. The next corridor is wider, the space opening up more, and from somewhere to the left Shiro can hear the dull rumble of a great machine, can feel the fierce vibrations of it through the floor. It sounds like a ship.

They pass a broad opening in the wall, light flooding the corridor, and finally Shiro’s prayers are answered: it’s a hangar. The walls are lined with ships of varying sizes, the biggest of which is down on the ground and clearly in the final stages of launching, its dark gleaming edges aglow with that familiar purple light as its invisible engines push it off the ground and send it powering out through the narrow gap in the ship’s wall, which closes the moment the ship is through. It must be controlled somehow, maybe through an observation deck somewhere out of sight, but Shiro doesn’t get the chance to find out, because the next moment the door closes and the hangar is hidden from sight, and they’re moving further down the corridor into the next.

By the time they reach their destination--a thin, narrow corridor with several heavy doors lining the walls--Shiro’s muscles are shaking with exertion, his legs threatening to buckle; he’s exhausted, in pain, sick with fear as they lead him towards a door halfway down the corridor, open it up, and pull him inside.

The room is lined with sleeping areas and, judging by the warmth of the room and the sheer amount of noise--that all dies down the moment Shiro comes into view--packed full of Galra soldiers. This is their barracks, Shiro realises with a jolt, feeling every eye in the room turn to him, to Sendak’s pet, brought to them on a leash like a lamb led to slaughter. They’re not going to kill him, he tells himself, even as his whole body freezes up in instinctive terror. They can’t kill him. Sendak wouldn’t let that happen.

With a vicious yank of the leash Shiro is sent sprawling, choking and clawing at his throat as they drag him towards one of the beds in the centre of the room, cutting a path through the crowd as they move. The next moment countless hands are on him, lifting him, and he struggles, kicking out wildly in their grip.

It ends almost before it even began: a hand closes around the end of his stump, claws threatening to rip open the barely-healed wound, and Shiro stills, panting heavily through the gag as they maneuver him into place until he’s face-down on the bed, propped up on his knees, the chain on his collar and the restraint on his left wrist secured to something on the bed’s underside, too tightly for him to move more than a few inches in either direction. His right arm gets folded uncomfortably beneath him, sending small jolts of pain through him with every slight shift of his weight; but Shiro knows it’s better than having it be out and exposed for them to hurt as they please.

Unlike the rest of him.

His legs are spread wide by rough hands, and the next thing he knows something is clicking into place around his knees, keeping them in place, everything between his legs exposed for them. Shiro closes his eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of dozens of eyes on him, of the warmth of their bodies as they shuffle in closer, surrounding him, crowding him in. Whatever happens now, they’re not going to kill him. He has to hold on to that; Shiro knows that it’s the only thing that will get him through this without breaking down completely.

A clawed hand grips at his chin, lifting his head from where its pressed into the bedding, exposing his fear-pale face. Shiro flinches at the touch, unable to keep his eyes from widening at the sight of a needle held in their grip right before his eyes, moving inexorably towards his unprotected neck.

Shiro’s breathing takes on a harsher edge as he tries to steel himself for the oncoming pain, his chest heaving. The needle enters his neck, the contents emptying into his bloodstream.

At first, there’s nothing. No pain, no cold, no numbness; nothing at all.

Then the heat starts. A seed of it sprouts at the base of his skin, thin vines growing outward, down his spine, coiling in his belly, a flower of warmth unfurling deep inside.

No. This can’t be happening. Not here; not now.

But it’s too late: Shiro can feel his cock beginning to thicken against his will. At the angle his neck is chained he can’t hide his flush of mortified shame. The best he can do is close his eyes tightly and pray that this ends quickly. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be seen like this, doesn’t want the betrayal of his body to be used like this. Panic clutches at his throat, even as his arousal grows, heat suffusing his veins.

The air is heavy with the warmth of tightly-packed bodies and the sweet-sharp stench of Galra arousal, so thick he can practically taste it. He has no idea how many soldiers are in the room. From the glimpses he’d caught he’d guess a few dozen, but even then they’d passed several similar doors on the way, of what could be even more soldier-filled barracks. Faint tremors of helplessness begin to run down his spine at the thought of them fucking him one by one. For a moment he’s almost glad for the gag: at least then he won’t have to suffer through the shame of hearing himself beg for them to stop, or worse, to keep going.

He flinches at a brush of fingers over his balls, hating how already it’s not enough: he needs more. The next moment a fist closes around them, gripping them fiercely, his ragged noise of shocked pain cut short by the harsh press of something into his mouth, sliding through the cool edges of the gag and bumping against the back of his throat.

Shiro doesn’t need to open his eyes to know what they’re doing. Already his breathing has instinctively adjusted with practiced ease, breaking through the panic to draw in measured inhales through his nose. Despite the new addition of the gag, the heavy weight of a cock in his mouth is familiar, the taste of it sliding over his tongue sharper than honey but not bitter enough to be unpleasant. Worst of all, his body is starting to respond to it: on the next slow thrust into his mouth his own cock jerks, spitting a thin splash of precome even as the pain in his balls intensifies.

The hand on him is working him in rhythm now, first squeezing tighter, tugging his balls down away from his body before relenting and rolling them roughly in their palm. At first the pain is too much: his body instinctively tries to curl away from their grip even as his onlookers mutter and laugh at his reaction, sending another flood of humiliation burning through him, because apparently it’s not enough for them to just use him; the Galra seem to enjoy degrading him and worse, forcing him to debase himself, turning his own body against him.

It’s already happening now: before too long the drug does its work, and even the rough tugs on his tender sac begin to feel good, the line between pleasure and pain blurring and then disappearing entirely as it all narrows down to pure sensation: the rough prickle of fur against his face, fingers gripping at his balls, the slick drag of the cock over his tongue. Already the wave of heat in his belly is beginning to crest, an unstoppable force, leaving him helpless to do anything but be carried by the tide.

Hands join the ones already on him, gripping at his legs and arm, stroking over his thighs, his back; one hand snakes under his chest to pinch at one pert nipple. More hands settle on his cheeks, spreading them apart, a single fingertip tracing a warm line down the curve of his spine and then lower, rubbing slowly over the tight furl of his hole. Shiro’s held too tightly to do any more than flinch, shuddering at the sensation: too much and not enough all at once. He doesn’t want it, doesn’t want any of this, but at the thought of what it would feel like for that finger to press forward, press _in,_ Shiro feels his cock swell further, growing impossibly harder. It would only take a little pressure, just the slightest nudge, and then they’d be inside him, working him open, easing the burning heat beneath his skin.

As if answering the prayers of his traitorous body the hands on him begin to work in tandem, the finger rubbing slow circles over his rim as the hand on his balls tugs them down away from his body, squeezing them tightly in vicious rhythm. Together it sends jolts of aching sensation rippling up through his gut, his groans muffled by the rapid drags of the cock in and out of his mouth. He’s close, he’s burning up, his cock aching and fat and dripping. He needs more.

Two things happen in the next moment: the finger presses against his hole and finally, finally pushes inside, and the hand on his balls tightens their fist around his sac and with the other deals the tender flesh a short sharp _slap_.

Shiro howls.

His orgasm crashes over him in an instant, his hips jerking helplessly as his cock spills a stream of come, painting the bedding beneath him. The grip on his balls goes back to tugging at them, the pleasure-pain intensifying, his hole fluttering around the intrusion even as the finger presses in deeper. Any pain is drowned out by the overwhelming rush of pleasure, so intense and unrelenting that he only distantly registers the flood of heat hitting the back of his throat as the Galran in his mouth comes, their fist holding his head in place until he swallows it all down, the vibrations of his stifled moans milking out another pulse of come from their cock.

He’s still shaking through the aftershocks when the finger pulls free, the hand releasing its hold on his balls, his helpless moan at the loss cut off by the soldier pushing their spent comrade aside and working their cock through the ring of metal in his mouth, sliding over his come-slick tongue. He’s drooling around the gag; he’s already a mess, his face wet with spit and come and what might be tears and he can’t keep himself from swallowing around the cock pressing against the back of his throat. Something about the salty-sweet taste is helping to keep the burning heat simmering in his veins from setting him alight; when the soldier pulls back, pulls free, Shiro can’t help chasing it with his mouth before he can stop himself.

The grip in his hair tightens, the flash of pain forcing his body to still and his eyes to open as the soldier tilts his head up to look them in the eye.

“Greedy little thing,” the Galran murmurs, to the amusement of the others crowded in around him. More voices join in, laughing and muttering among themselves; Shiro forces himself to tune them out, feeling his face flush hotter than it already is at the feeling of all their eyes on him, watching him fall apart like this: even now his hips are twitching, seeking more stimulation; anything to ease the burning ache within. “I can see why Sendak likes it so much.”

The mention of Sendak is like a bucket of ice water poured over Shiro, momentarily holding back the tide of pleasured heat still washing over him in steady waves. _‘Mine’_ , Sendak had said, his intention clear from the start: Shiro belongs to him and him alone. If Sendak ever finds out about this, what they did to him, what Shiro let them do...

At the feel of something thick pressing against his hole Shiro begins to struggle, warring against the urge to shove back against it as he tries to resist the pleasure of even that slight touch. His weak struggles only serve to give the soldier in front an excuse to resume fucking his mouth, battering his face with each vicious thrust of their hips. Shiro suppresses a shudder at how even that sends sparks of bright pleasure straight to his cock, setting it throbbing again, precome beading at the tip. He’s getting off on this. Getting off on sucking Galra cock and being touched by Galra hands. The drug is no excuse for it; the sick depraved part of him that’s getting off on being humiliated and degraded like this had to grow from somewhere.

 _Fight back,_ Shiro tells himself as a broad hand settles on his head, guiding the angle of his mouth, but his body is working against him, leaning into the touch even as he wills himself not to give in. The next moment hands are on his waist, the soldier behind him bracing themselves as they begin to press in, the fat head of their cock spreading him wide and it should hurt, it’s _supposed_ to hurt, but instead all Shiro can feel is the overwhelming craving for more, hating how he can feel his hole trying to suck them in, like a hungry little mouth desperate to be fed. On the next roll of their hips it slides in in one smooth movement, the sensation of it stretching him deep inside incomparable, indescribable. Shiro feels his eyes flutter shut as he comes again, his whole body shaking with it as they press in further, using their grip on his waist to work him down onto their cock until they’re buried to the hilt.

For the first few minutes he’s not even sure that he _stops_ orgasming, one ongoing wave of pleasure crashing over him again and again, his body spasming around them with each slight shift of their ridged cock against that aching spot inside. It’s too much; his heart is pounding like a caged animal in his chest, his nerves aflame with pleasure as his cock sways and jerks, spitting pulse after pulse of come. He groans, helpless, feels the soldier in his mouth pull out to paint his face with thick stripes of hot come, his hips jerking as the taste of it hits his tongue.

 

He’s still blinking the mess out of his eyelashes, just barely holding himself back from tipping over the edge again by the time a hand closes over his cock and begins to squeeze up and down the wet length of it, milking another orgasm out of him with long steady pulls of their hand. Shiro’s powerless to do anything but let himself thrust into their tight slick grip, nearly sobbing when rough fingers rub over the exposed head in time with the slow drags of the cock behind him as it spears him open again and again.

He’s soaked with sweat, still burning up and in a state of continuous overload, but being touched like this, surrounded like this, almost makes it bearable in a way it hadn’t been on the table. Unlike then, when he’d barely been able to keep up with the urgent demands of his body--the overwhelming pleasure interwoven with an undercurrent of fear as the heat began to spiral out of his control--whatever they’re doing to him now is keeping the heat at bay, keeping it from setting his whole body alight.

It doesn’t take long for the soldier pounding into him to speed up the pace of their thrusts. Each powerful jerk of their hips jostles Shiro’s tender balls where they hang swollen and bruised, sending sharp jolts of sensation spiking up through his gut until he’s unable to keep from moaning around the soldier in his mouth, the Galran succumbing to the vibrations not long after. The hand on Shiro’s cock is really working him in earnest now, the tight circle of their hand slick with precome and come both, pulling him gasping and shuddering through another drawn-out orgasm, the tight clutch of his body drawing the Galran behind him over the edge too. When they pull out, he can feel hot liquid spilling out from his fucked-open hole, dripping down over his balls. Might be blood, might be come. Probably both. Doesn’t matter either way: the next soldier is already rubbing the head of their cock through the mess, slicking themselves up and then working their way into him with short, sharp jerks of their hips.

Another Galran takes up his empty mouth, using their grip in his hair to tug him on to their cock, and from there it becomes a game, his body a toy being dragged back and forth between the soldier in front and the one behind, the hand on his cock sliding up his chest to stroke at his nipples in counterpoint. Barely thirty seconds pass before he’s coming again, and then twice more in quick succession as new hands join the others already on him--too many to keep count--to tug and work at his still-tender sac, his thundering pulse momentarily drowning out his own ragged panting and the harsh grunts of the Galra fucking into him and the obscene sounds of dozens of soldiers getting themselves off to the display before them.

Unexpected heat splashes over his scalp, then his back, his left thigh: come. They’ve come on him. More than once. A hand rubs over his head and works the streaks of come into his hair. Some of it drips down over his forehead, into his eyes. His eyelashes are already beginning to glue shut. A cock brushes over the mess on his lips, pulling back when his tongue flicks out to lap up the pink pearl of precome at the tip, the pitch of his groans turning thin and desperate at being denied. He needs it. Needs the hefty weight of it on his tongue, the taste of it, the sweet heady scent of the thick snarl of fur at the base, the antidote to the burning poison in his veins.

On the next slow press of the cock through the metal ring between his lips Shiro curls his tongue over the head, laving at the spiny tip. He shouldn’t be doing this, a voice in the back of his mind screams at him. He’s supposed to be fighting back. But fighting back means more hurt, more pain, more humiliation; he knows that from experience. And here, in this moment, with the drug coursing through his veins, it’s exactly like the part of his time with Sendak that he always looks forward to the most: the moment when his whole world narrows down to the sensations of his body as he tips over into orgasm, and he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to do anything at all besides lie there and lose himself in it, let it wash over him, briefly cleansing him of all shame and fear and pain as it hits, and all he can think is _yes, yes, it feels so good; let this moment never end._

And here, now, the moment isn’t ending. The whisper of shame at the realisation that he doesn’t _want_ it to end is faint, easily stifled. Shiro brushes it from his mind, dragging his focus back to all the places he’s being touched and how achingly _good_ it feels. He’s going to come again soon, and then again, and again, letting them force it out of him until he’s milked dry. The thick cock plunging inside him is rubbing right over that delicious bundle of nerves with every thrust, his nipples tight and raw from being toyed with. His cock is fat and drooling, leaving smears of precome against his heaving belly with every instinctual roll of his hips.

On the next teasing slide of the cock over his tongue Shiro jerks his head forward, opening his throat up and swallowing them down to the hilt. Precome splashes against the back of his throat as they snap their hips back and then in again, fucking his mouth in a frenzy. It feels good. It feels so good.

Shiro lets the last little scrap of tension go, and sinks into the sensations of his body.

Time unravels. It skips and stutters in brief flashes of bodies and hands and cocks; it stretches out, slow as molasses. He's been here for hours; he's been here his whole life. Shiro loses track of the ones behind him, of the ones in front. Everything is so _loud,_ bodies jostling for a position around him and the slap of skin on skin and the slap of a hand across his face and across his ass like he’s an animal that needs to be spurred on, the thick squelch of come spilling down his thighs sloppy and obscene.

Two soldiers jostle for a position at his mouth and end up dragging him messily back and forth between them; someone unfastens the restraint on his wrist to tug his hand down onto their cock and jerks themselves hard and fast with it; the fat head of a cock rubs teasingly over his loose rim again and again until he finally loses patience and shoves back against it. They take everything and his body is still greedy for more, his hips tilting down, opening himself up wider. Come splatters over his jaw his back his face his neck his thighs hands on him hands all over him and he comes and he comes and he comes and it doesn't stop and it doesn't end.

+++

But all things end eventually.

Somewhere between the endless hours, pain begins to bleed through the veil of pleasure, the ache between his legs growing into a thin blade of agony sharpened by every brutal thrust into him.

It hurts. It _hurts_ , and his moans aren't of pleasure any more.

He’s still coming. His cock feels chafed raw, his balls achingly sore and swollen from the abuse they’ve been subjected to, and if he wasn’t bleeding before, he definitely is now. But despite the passing of the pleasure-inducing effect of the drug they’d injected him with, some traces of it must still be lingering in his bloodstream; even as his orgasms tip over from discomfort to pain to outright agony, his body still isn’t stopping.

Neither are the Galra.

The room is still packed with them, the air heavy with the thick, bitter stench of come and sweat and metallic blood and arousal as more of them line up to watch or take their turn or come back for more. Shiro’s long since lost track of how many there’ve been, of how many more there are still to come, his entire world narrowed down to the pain rippling through him as more soldiers use his body and the hot ache of the ruin of his arm trapped beneath him.

Then, somewhere within the unending torment, there’s a few seconds between one soldier finishing up and the next pushing their way in when no-one’s touching Shiro at all. The pause-- _please, please let it be over--_ stretches on for longer, the seconds ticking by, until, with a ‘click’, the restraint keeping his legs fixed in place comes undone. The cuff on his left wrist quickly follows, until the thin chain attached his neck to the underside of the bed is the only thing keeping him there. It doesn’t matter either way; his body has been fixed in this position for so long that his overexerted muscles have long since locked up. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

 

The next moment, a crowd of hands are on him, gripping and shoving at him until he’s on his side and then his back, the chain pulling taut enough that he chokes for the few seconds it takes for one of them to notice and loosen it enough for him to breathe. Even as he’s still gasping for air more hands close around his ankles, his limp body too exhausted to do anything more than struggle feebly in their grip as they start to move him. _Don't, don't,_ he tries to say, but nothing comes out through the gag, and hands on his ankles are pushing them up to his shoulders until Shiro's practically folded in half, knees pressed to his chest, groaning dryly as his overexerted muscles scream in protest at the position after being fixed in place for so long.

Within seconds the bar they’d used before to fix his knees in place is back, this time attached to his ankles. A rough grip drags Shiro’s remaining arm up, clipping the restraint on his wrist to the middle of the bar until he’s pinned in place, the Galra touching him pulling away, pulling back to admire their handiwork: Shiro open and on display for all to see, slick with sweat and come and blood, more dripping out of him as his exposed hole twitches helplessly.

This position has one consolation: at least like this, he can move his head enough to tuck his face into his shoulder; anything to tune out the mocking jeers at the way he’s been posed and the sounds of soldiers goading each other into going next.

An eager hand swipes through the mess on his thighs, gathering it up and pushing it viciously back into him with the pad of their thumb. It hurts; it's more than he can bear, but even now his traitorous body instinctively tries to press into it, tries to draw it in deeper. It's no use: his abused muscles can't do anything more than flutter weakly around the intrusion.

“Look at it,” someone mutters: the one fucking into him with two fingers now, and then a third. “Trying to fuck itself on my fingers.”

 _No more,_ Shiro wants to say, _Please, I can't,_ but all that makes it through the gag is a ragged, animal noise of pain as the soldier replaces their fingers with their cock, slicking themselves up with the blood and come on their hand. They slide in easily with a noise that’s swiftly changes from one of mocking to one of disgust, in one smooth motion burying themselves in to the hilt, giving a few sloppy thrusts through the mess he’s been filled with.

Shiro jerks in his restraints, writhing in pain as they rub fiercely against raw abraded skin, but the tight clench of his agonised body only serves to spur his audience on further, the Galran pausing their slow thrusts into him before pulling out with a pleased sound.

More muttering, and hands close around the bar keeping his legs and wrist in place. Something thick and hard and cool and decidedly inorganic presses against his hole, his body accepting it easily despite the ripples of sharp discomfort it sends flickering through him.

“This’ll do the trick,” a voice murmurs from somewhere below him, “make it nice and tight for us again.”

Between one panted breath and the next, the pain hits. Shiro screams.

The hands on the bar keep him in place as he thrashes, his hoarse yell tapering off into agonised silence when the thing they're shocking him with pulls out to press against his perineum, his balls, the insides of his thighs and it hurts too much to scream, his whole body locking up tight in a rictus of agony. After what feels like an eternity the pain recedes, long enough for him to gasp a few desperate breaths through the gag, feeling his heart pound wildly in his chest, the rhythm erratic. His body can’t take much more of this. Clearly that doesn’t matter to them; before long they're shocking him again, relentless, merciless; distantly Shiro registers his cock dribbling a weak spurt of come over his trembling abdomen, forced out by the stimulation.

By the time the electricity recedes his chest is heaving, limbs shaking uncontrollably in the restraints, his eyes wet with tears of agony. He wants this to stop, wants it to be over. His body has been pushed to the very limit of endurance; he’s exhausted, aching, beginning to shiver; whatever has kept him from going into shock before now, it’s beginning to wear off.

Shiro flinches at the touch of curious fingers tracing the now-tight furl of his hole, his whole body made tense by the pain of before. With a sharp jab the finger edges its way inside through the mess of blood and come, rocking slowly in and out, exploratory, sending bright ripples of pain shuddering through him as it brushes harshly over torn skin. After a few long moments, it pulls back, its owner humming with satisfaction.

“Looks like it’s ready for more,” someone mutters.

The next moment Shiro can feel the bed shifting beneath him as a soldier clambers up onto it until they’re practically covering him with their body, one hand gripping the bar that holds Shiro’s legs and arm in place while their other tries to feed their cock into the unyielding clutch of Shiro’s hole. A sharp jerk of their hips, and they manage to force their way inside, the thick head of their cock stretching him wide as it presses in. It hurts. Shiro can feel a fresh trickle of blood dripping down from between his legs.

 

“What’s the matter?” a voice chips in after a few minutes of slow thrusting with little response from Shiro, beyond a few gasps and flinches when the pain gets particularly intense.

A new hand brushes over Shiro’s cheek, claws digging into the curve of his jaw where it’s pressed to his shoulder. “I think it’s shy,” the one touching him responds, their voice almost crooning.

Someone chuckles. “Wasn’t so shy a few eighths ago,” they say, and then, “huh, would you look at that.”

Noise filters through: quiet, at first among all the other sounds in the room, and then almost unbearably loud. Someone's moaning, the sound oddly muffled but clearly desperate, practically pornographic, undercut by rhythmic, sloppy noises. It's unmistakably the sound of someone getting fucked and enjoying it; Shiro feels his face beginning to heat just from hearing it. He doesn’t want to know what this is.

Then the projection flickers into life above him, and realisation hits with horrifying clarity.

Because it's him: he's the one moaning and whimpering as he's bounced on someone's cock even as he laves at another one pressing at his mouth, licking his lips when it comes all over his face. He's the one arching his back and leaning into the touch as hands stroke over his nipples and cock and the muscle of his chest. He's the one whining like an animal when fingers pinch and tug at his sensitive balls until they draw up tight and he comes. It's impossible to mistake the sounds he's making as they touch him--as they fuck him--for anything other than what they are: sounds of pleasure. It's visible in every line of his come-slick body, in the shaking tension of his thighs and the smooth curve of his spine and the way his toes curl as another orgasm hits.

He came for them. He came for them again and again and still his body begged for more and received it willingly. And now it's being projected all around the room for everyone to see, evidence of just how depraved Shiro is, just how far he's fallen.

One of the nearby soldiers ducks down, whispering in Shiro’s ear. Among the other noise Shiro only catches snatches of their words: “---more prisoners coming in soon-----prettier than----not the first---Sendak will find a new pet----” and then, in one vicious, uninterrupted stream, “---keep you here with us, our own pet slut for us to use as we please.”

As if to drive that point home, when the soldier inside him finally tears their eyes away from the sight of Shiro silently begging for Galra cock on the holovid above them, their attention immediately goes to Shiro’s mostly-soft cock, where it lies limp against his abdomen. From this angle, splayed on his back like this, his cock is in easy reach of any curious hand. Shiro jerks in his restraints when a rough thumb brushes over the head, easing back the foreskin to expose the sore, inflamed tip, the dull ache sharpening to a bright pain when the pad of their thumb rubs right over the slit. Shiro groans; he’s way too sensitive for that.

After a few seconds the thumb draws back, but the respite is brief: the next moment the soldier closes two fingers and their thumb around the shaft of Shiro’s cock, just below the head. Shiro tries to tune out the wash of shame and the sounds of derision from the others crowded around him when they begin to stroke it, still with just their fingertips, like it’s so small that two fingers is all that they need.

Shiro isn't-----he's not exactly _small_ , even when soft, at least not by human standards. But compared to the Galra, who are physically larger in practically every way including this one, the difference in size is almost painfully apparent, in a way that Shiro had never really noticed before. Not until now, when each light brush of their fingers forcibly draws his attention to just how small he is in their grip.

The rhythm of their strokes up and down the length of his cock is so slow it’s almost teasing, in time with the steady rock of their hips into him, working their way in deeper a little at a time. After a few minutes of stroking they start to toy with it, shaking it playfully from side to side until more of the onlookers begin to jeer, the noise only intensifying when they resume stroking--more firmly this time--until Shiro’s cock twitches in their grip and slowly, slowly, begins to harden.

He doesn’t want this; doesn’t want any of this, but they’re rocking in and out of him so slowly it barely hurts at all and the press of their fingers is almost gentle and he'd expected this position to hurt worse than before but instead, instead, at this angle it doesn't take long for the tip of their cock to brush over that aching spot inside. Shiro jolts at the unexpected burst of sensation, too-much and hurting and good all at once.

His reaction doesn't go unnoticed: the Galran fucking into him directs a few more thrusts to press against that spot until Shiro’s face screws up in overstimulated pain, even as his cock thickens up in their grip until it's not quite soft anymore. That reaction doesn't go unnoticed either, judging by the surge of encouragement from the others crowded around, their crowing voices momentarily drowning out the long, drawn-out wail of Shiro up on the holovid as someone fucks him through another orgasm.

His cock is almost fully hard now, and beginning to bead with precome, the fingers on him smearing it down the length of him with each rhythmic pull of their hand even as he tries to resist the faint sparks of heat beginning to coil in his belly. Worst of all, as the soldier starts to pick up the pace of their thrusts, each slick drag of their cock into Shiro sends the thick snarl of fur that rests above the base brushing teasingly against the underside of his tender sac.

It doesn't take long for the feeling to grow almost unbearable, his hips twitching helplessly, seeking more stimulation. Soon, each languid roll of the Galran’s hips is pushing Shiro up into the tight circle of their fingers before gravity drags him back down onto their cock, again and again and again, until Shiro’s thighs tremble with the effort of keeping himself from fucking up into their grip or down onto the thick length of them. His body is accepting the intrusion readily, now, the pleasure steadily eclipsing the pain of before even as he feels more warm blood trickling down between his legs. Between the fingers rapidly working him over, the slick slide of their cock against that spot inside him, and the soft, barely-there touches to his aching balls, Shiro struggles against the enormity of another orgasm building, against the knowledge that it’s going to happen whether he wants it to or not.

He’s going to come again, in front of all these Galra, trussed up like a piece of meat to the soundtrack of himself getting off on being fucked. There’s no more shame to be had; one more orgasm barely mattered against the rest. They’ve already seen him helpless. They’ve seen--they’re still seeing--what he was, what he _is,_ what he’s become. What does it matter.

All it takes is a few more slow touches and he’s coming, biting back a ragged wail. His cock blurts a weak dribble of come. His toes curl. His body shakes. It’s too much. It’s too much.

Shiro lets go completely.

+++

He’s on the ground. Face pressed to the floor. Chained to the wall. A faint breeze; he’s near the doorway where any passing Galra can see him. Soldiers moving to and fro. They fuck him. It hurts.

Time flickers. His body is tired. His mouth is dry. Each sob of breath scraping like sandpaper over his tongue.

Movement out of the corner of his eye: curved metal. A bowl. The slosh of liquid as it is nudged towards him. He tries to push himself upright. Fails. Tries again. Inches forwards. A boot kicks the bowl out of reach. Struggles towards it again. Laughter as the bowl is moved further away. He’s thirsty. He’s so thirsty. His left arm buckles beneath him. Hits the ground. Pale fingers reaching, outstretched----

Bright, stunning pain as a knife drives through his palm into the floor, pinning his hand in place.

It hurts. It hurts so much; worse when someone decides to start fucking him. Each violent thrust jostles the knife, sending burning stabs of agony all the way up Shiro’s arm. His fingers twitch uselessly. Blood drips around where the knife is embedded.

After a few minutes the wound has widened enough for Shiro to move his palm a few millimetres up and down. A few minutes more, and he can press the back of his hand against the hilt of the knife, feeling it shift from where it’s buried in the floor. He works in rhythm with the thrusts behind him, slowly dislodging the knife from the ground a few centimetres at a time.

By the time the soldier fucking him is on the brink of orgasm, the knife is almost free. One last yank is all it will take.

But first Shiro needs to make a decision. The knife is long enough that if he curls his fingers around the blade it’ll be an adequate weapon, good enough to inflict a lot of damage if aimed carefully. He might only get one shot at this. He needs to choose wisely: there’s the soldier behind him--readying themselves to spill into him--or the one planning to take their place, or the next, or the one after them, or, or, or.

Or there’s the other option. Shiro lifts his head enough to get a glimpse of the bloodied, chafed-raw remains of his right arm. The ragged seam of the wound has partially split open sometime in the last few hours, the sluggish stream of blood slowing as it congeals. It wouldn’t take much to rip the wound open wider. Just one sharp slice of the blade, and it would be over. It would be easy--he’d bleed out before they managed to get him back to the lab, if there was even anyone there to treat him. It would be over. All of it. No more pain, no more humiliation, no more _this._

But. His team. They’re counting on him. Their lives are in his hands. If he dies, so do their chances of ever escaping. He can’t. He can’t do that to them. He can’t.

On the next thrust inwards the Galran fucking into him stills, their cock jerking deep inside as they spill, panting wetly against the back of Shiro’s neck as their body goes limp. It’s all the opening that Shiro needs: he uses the moment of vulnerability to twist beneath them, blood-slick fingers curling around the knife’s blade as he thrusts it up into the unprotected skin of the Galran’s throat.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

The soldier stumbles backwards, gurgling wetly as dark purple blood begins to spill from between their spasming fingers where they clutch at their throat. Something hard hits Shiro in the back of the head, stunning him. He hits the floor hard. The next moment the others descend on him: fingers grab hold of his arm with a vice-like grip, ripping the knife free from the palm of his hand. Through pain-slitted eyes Shiro watches it skitter across the floor, out of reach, leaving a dark smear of red-purple blood in its wake.

A booted foot stomps down hard on his outstretched hand, his yell of pain as bone crunches seemingly an invitation for them to inflict more: now there’s a whole group of them hitting him, brutal kicks slamming against his back and ribs as he tries futilely to curl up. A boot cracks against the stump of his arm. Before he has the chance to scream another kick deals the side of his head a powerful blow. Consciousness wavers. Shiro clings to it with all the strength that he has left; if he passes out now, he might not wake up again.

He’s manhandled roughly back onto his front, a whole group of them hemming him in, knees and hands and boots pinning his flailing limbs in place. Something in his ankle cracks from the force, ripping a ragged noise of pain out of him, but the pressure doesn’t relent. Instead a hand grabs a fistful of his hair and drags his head up, forcing his spine to twist so sharply he’s sure something’s going to give way, choked sobs of agony tearing their way from his throat as more hands spread his legs apart. Someone shoves their way into him in one brutal thrust, claws digging deep into his hips. It hurts too much to scream.

Blood is still streaming from the gaping wound in his hand and the partially-split seam on the wreck of his right arm; within minutes he’s slipping around in a pool of it, watching it grow with each passing moment as the thick stench of it fills the air.

He’s going to die here. He’s going to die like this. He’d fought so long and so hard to survive, to do whatever it took to make it through another hour, and it didn’t matter. This is it. This is where it ends.

Sometime between the third and the fifth soldier, a bright pulse of light drags Shiro out of his numb reverie. From the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of multiple wrist panels lighting up in brief flashes, the same way Sendak’s had before. It’s a signal; a message. Not one that Shiro has the ability to interpret, but judging from the reactions around him--a smattering of cheers and hollers--whatever it is, it must be positive.

He’s not going to get the chance to find out more. The blood loss is starting to catch up to him: he feels achingly cold, his heart pounding erratically in his chest, darkness spilling like ink across his vision. Time stretches and stutters as he wavers in and out of consciousness like a tide carrying him out to sea, his only comfort the knowledge that _it’ll be over soon, please, please let it be over soon_.

By the time the door slams open Shiro barely has the energy left to open his eyes. Heavy footsteps on the ground send faint tremors through him where he’s pressed against the floor. Dimly, he registers that the soldier fucking him has stopped moving. The next moment they’ve pulled out entirely.

Then a scream splits the air, and all hell breaks loose.

There’s a thick, wet crunch, and then a spray of hot blood paints Shiro’s back and thighs. The screaming chokes off into a horrible, bubbling noise before something heavy hits the floor. More people are screaming now, the air filling with the bitter stench of blood as someone carves a swathe through the soldiers surrounding Shiro, snarling with such powerful fury that Shiro can feel it in his chest. Another gut-wrenching sound, followed by two slick thuds in quick succession as the two halves of the soldier that just got ripped in half hit the floor. The barrack’s occupants are practically stampeding in their desperation to get away from this new lone attacker, threatening to crush Shiro in their attempts to get towards the door, and he can’t move---he can’t move, and they’re going to, they’re going to----

The attacker circles back around to stand before Shiro’s prone form, slashing and stabbing at anyone that gets too close. More blood fountains. Soon the floor is wet with it, and the room is quiet, save for the few muffled groans of those not quite dead yet.

Shiro can’t even turn his head to look. He doesn’t need to, the bone-deep knowledge filtering through him: it’s Sendak. He came back, and he’s here.

Sendak’s here.

Shiro’s safe now.

None of the rest matters.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****More detailed content warnings: this chapter contains a scene depicting the amputation of Shiro's arm in graphic detail while he is still awake and conscious. Later in the chapter, Shiro is stabbed in the hand and later uses the knife to slit the throat of the Galran raping him.*****
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> Again, I reiterate: sorry Shiro. 
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> Sorry for the long wait between chapters (life has been kicking my ass lately), but I hope the length of this one makes up for it. As usual, comments are really appreciated, and thank you so, so much to all those who've commented so far; it's because of you that I keep writing this, and I'm glad to have y'all along for the ride <3 
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> [twitter](https://twitter.com/mbaline_trash?lang=en-gb)

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [muddy-lions](http://muddy-lions.tumblr.com) and [leandrasboy](http://leandrasboy.tumblr.com) for the various inspirations, and to [lohkay](https://lohkaydraws.tumblr.com) for the sinspiration for (upcoming) Shiro/Sendak. 
> 
> Anway, welcome to the trash pit. My trash heart thrives on feedback and comments, even if it's just a short message to let me know that people are actually reading/want more! I've been writing regardless of that, but it's still nice to know.


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